STORIES OF HELL'S 
COMMERCE 

OR THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC IN ITS TRUE LIGHT 

A COMPILATION of INTERESTING 
STORIES, TRUE INCIDENTS, STRIKING 
ILLUSTRATIONS, POINTED PARA- 
GRAPHS, POETRY and SONG, POR- 
TRAYING the EVILS of the RUM CURSE 

AS RELATED BY 

John G. Wooley, John P. St. John, Eli Perkins. Ghas. M. Sheldon, 

D. L. Moody, Ghauncey Depew, R. A. Torrey, Sam Jones, 

Henry Ward Beecher, John B. Gough, Theo. L. Guyler, 

Ada Melville Shaw, T.DeWittTalmage, L. A. Banks, 

Gen. Fred Grant, Gen. Sheridan, Frank Beard, 

Rudyard Kipling, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 

Wendall Phillips, and many others. 

APPROPRIATELY ARRANGED IN DEPARTMENTS 

COMPILED AND EDITED 

BY ELTON R. SHAW 






Introduction By SAMUEL DICKIE, President of Albion College 

GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN 

SHAW PUBLISHING COMPANY 

No. 2 PEARL STREET 



^ 



V 



COPYRIGHT 1909 
BY 

ELTON R: SHAW 

All Rights Reserved 



3 CI. A I a 1 -4 o 



To My Wife 
THIS BOOK 

Is Affectionately Dedicated 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

FULL PAGE HALF TONES 

PAGE 

"Hetty Ria" r opposite 68 

"You feel yourself above it, no doubt" " 95 

"Sure, Mr. Len, a ram's horn is a fool to it!" " 105 

"In the great library of Carville Tower" " 144 

"The driveway, lined with a noble avenue of trees" " 145 

"Down, foot by foot, carefully feeling his way" " 155 

"I know, daddy, but there is the other world" " 208 

"I held on to the stick in the spool and walked backward" " 244 

"It was my father; he was stiff and cold" " 344 

"I cannot tell you how my mother wept and groaned" " 344 

DRAWINGS 

"David played, and the wind was right" 33 

"Lick me as sair as ye want to" 43 

The March of the Light Brigade _ 52 

"My name isn't Jack, it's Jim" 55 

"I had to come and see you early" 74 

"Tom M'Hardy felt that every word was spoken for him" 82 

"Now, Elnathan, I want you to tell me how you got to comin' in here" 86 

"You lost a sight of money in the fire, Clem" 91 

"There, between the fingers, . . . was the No License ballot" 304 

"I was lookin' for a pair of new shoes" 385 

"Hush! don't tell him! don't tell him! but look here" 307 

ILLUSTRATED POEMS 

The Saloon Keeper's Cash Drawer Bell 507 

" Whiskey, That's All" :508 

Ladies' Entrance 525 

Ode to Americans 526 

The Saloon Keeper's Side , 527 

The Budweiser Brand 528 

The Consumer's Side 529 

The March of the Drink Brigade 530 



PREFACE 

There is no need to say much by way of preface to this book. The 
character of the work is so fully described by the title page and the 
table of contents that little remains to be added to give the readers a 
clear idea of the nature and purpose of the work. 

We offer no apology for adding one more volume to the many books 
dealing with the great temperance reform, for we believe that this has 
a place distinct from all others, and that it will meet a demand that has 
never been more urgent than at the present time. There are many 
excellent books dealing with the history of this reform movement and 
with the economic and theoretical sides of the question; but no book of 
stories, incidents or poems has yet been published. The many able 
books and annual prohibition hand-books have done a great work in 
giving information to people already interested in the reform, but it 
must be admitted by all that they are read largely by reformers and 
Christian people who already realize that the liquor traffic is Hell's 
Commerce and that its overthrow is the greatest problem before the 
American people. Such people are already engaged, to some extent 
at least, in the work of bringing about the downfall of this curse of 
our country. This book is designed to aid all engaged in this work, but 
has also another purpose quite as important. 

The attitude of the newspapers is better than it has ever been in 
the past, but secular newspapers never have and never will come out 
and give their columns to such stories and incidents as these which will 
appeal to the heart and soul. The religious press is doing a noble work 
in this line, but religious papers go only in the homes of church mem- 
bers. Even there they are limited. Few families have more than one or 
two religious papers. The subscription book reaches a new field, and a 
book of this nature will find its way into homes where it is much needed. 
Again, the book is needed to reach the youth of our land in their 
homes. Many people advance the theory that knowledge of evil should 
be kept from the young — that ignorance is the best guarantee of inno- 
cence. The sad testimony of thousands proves that this is a fallacy. 
In ignorance lies the greatest danger. One of the greatest causes of 
the prohibition wave during the last few years has been the educative 
forces that have been at work for the last forty or fifty years. The 
teaching in the schools of the effect of alcohol upon the system has had 

VII 



vni PREFACE 

great results. A new generation has grown up and this early training 
has not been forgotten. This book of stories, interesting incidents 
and poems will be read by the young as well as the older ones, and is 
bound to create a sentiment that will be worked out in later years. The 
book is therefore intended to supplement the work of the Temperance 
columns in religious periodicals, and it is hoped that its nature and 
character will make it appeal to people who are not reached by the 
historical, economic and other theoretical books, or by the religious press. 

We do not mean to imply by this, that the book is intended to appeal 
to the emotions only. These stories, incidents and poems give much 
information and deal with all phases of the liquor problem. 

In collecting the matter for this book, we have tried to avoid any- 
thing that did not appear to be perfectly reliable and true to life. We 
have given the name of the author as well as the periodical in as many 
cases as we have been able to do so. Many of the sketches and stories 
are true, and in choosing fiction, we have chosen what we believe 
will help to portray the traffic in its true light. It must be remem- 
bered that there are some things that cannot be exaggerated. No news- 
paper reporter has ever yet been able in his description to overdraw a 
real cyclone, an earthquake or a storm at sea. No person has ever been 
able to exaggerate the slimy squalor and crime of our slimiest slums in 
our great cities, and it must be admitted by all who are familiar with 
the awful conditions and crime and misery traceable to the liquor 
traffic, that these stories and shorter sketches are not overdrawn in the 
least. Some of the accounts narrated have come under our personal 
knowledge; others have been written expressly for this book, and 
others have been selected from hundreds of periodicals and other sources 
to which we have had access during the last seven or eight years. 

The pointed paragraphs have been gathered from various sources 
and are what we consider to be only the very best that have been pub- 
lished. We have given credit in as many cases as possible, but have 
been unable to do this with a large number of them, inasmuch as the 
papers do not give the authors of such short sentences. We believe 
that these will be valuable to temperance lecturers and other workers. 
Surely, they cannot but help to be beneficial to all readers. 

We believe that there is much need of such a collection of songs 
as this book contains. Various books and booklets of temperance songs 
have been published, but the tunes are new, or at least unfamiliar to 



PREFACE ix 

most people. People are slow to take up new tunes, and hence this 
form of agitation in churches and other congregations has never proven 
as successful as it should be. We have selected songs to be sung with 
patriotic and a few other well-known airs. We believe that audiences 
will join heartily in the singing of these words to such tunes, and can 
furnish booklets at a very small price for such occasions. It is the 
hope of the publishers that these songs will be sung in the homes and 
taught to the children. Such a practice cannot help but have a lasting 
influence. 

Many of the stories, incidents and poems are published in tract 
form by the publishers of this book, who will furnish list and prices 
on application. 

We desire to acknowledge our indebtedness to President Dickie 
for his introduction; to our parents and others for their aid in the com- 
pilation and proof-reading of the work; to the various papers for their 
kindness in loaning us cuts ; to other papers giving us permission to 
reproduce their illustrations and- for information given us from the 
offices of the various temperance organizations. 

That this book may awaken a greater interest and create deeper 
conviction that will be worked out in the agitation now already so 
prevalent for the overthrow of the liquor traffic, is the prayer of the 
publishers. 



INTRODUCTION 

The book that Mr. Shaw is putting before the public 
needs no lengthy introduction. 

The temperance question is still a very live question and 
will continue to interest men and women of all classes for years 
to come. 

The reform movement which demands the entire sup- 
pression of the traffic in and manufacture of intoxicating bev- 
erages has traveled a long and sometimes an uncertain road, 
but it now seems to be nearing the goal which has all along- 
been its objective point. 

Gradually an increasing number of our best citizens are 
coming to see that the liquor traffic has no right to exist, that 
it is evil and only evil and that continually, and that it meets 
no innocent need of human life, that it creates no values, that 
it absorbs great values, that it robs the butcher and the grocer 
and the dry goods dealer, that it is a pirate on the high seas of 
commerce, a fraud and a robber everywhere, that it breaks 
hearts and ruins lives and curses and blights and damns all 
who come in contact with it. 

The economic, the political and the social ills growing 
out of the sale and use of intoxicants have forced upon the 
people the necessity of giving increased attention to the exter- 
mination of the traffic. 

This book contains many true stories of drink's awful 
tragedies and gives in brief and pointed paragraphs the pithy 

XI 



xii INTRODUCTION 

utterances of many men and women who have put their lives 
into the struggle for the overthrow of a giant wrong. 

I sincerely hope and confidently believe that the wide 
circulation of the items here compiled will contribute in no 
small degree to the right side of the controversy for the out- 
lawry of the world's greatest wrong, the licensed liquor traffic. 



Albion, Mich., Aug. 26, 1909. 



K ce\<dl_s^ 



CONTENTS 



PART I--STORIES 

Page 

Story of a Little Life 19 

The Bridal Wine-Cup.. 22 

The Old Temperance Lecturer,... 24 

The Voice of the Trumpet 30 

A Three-fold Victory 40 

An Angel in a Saloon 46 

Captain Ned and 1 the Dragon 50 

Little Jim 53 

Janie Elliott's Christmas 59 

Saved by a Telephone Message. ... 64 

The Faith of Hetty Ria 68 

Aunt Margaret's Story 72 

Tom M'Hardys Battlements 78 

The Saloon at the Settlement 83 

The Voice of the Pilot 92 

At the Stroke of Nine 106 

Tom's Temperance Lecture 108 

The Spectral Inn-Keeper 112 

Liquor's Deadly Work 119 

The Driver's Story 123 

A Scrap of Brown Paper 124 

Experience of Col. S. E. Hadley. ..127 

Anton Vester's Revenge 130 

The Cost of One Drink 136 

The Company He Kept 139 

Roger Carville's Atonement 143 

The Pauper Woman's Speech 156 

You Never Told Us 158 

What Came to Dilly's House 160 

The Widow and the Judge 163 

A Bottle of Tears 166 

The Standard^Bearer 169 

Little Bridget 172 

Married to a Drunkard 174 

Allen Bancroft's Pledge 176 

Mrs. Clapsaddle's Experience with 

Stufflie's Salted Whiskey 179 

Handicapped 185 

A Paying Result 191 

Timmy Flannigan and His Promo- 
tion 198 

Rebellion of "Front No. 3" 201 

His Own Way 204 

The Saloon-Keeper's Daughter 206 

"Puff," The Engineer 212 

Jimmie's Account 216 

For the Sake of Jimmy 219 

Tow-Head 224 

How His Easter Came 228 

Aunt Lizzie's Prayer Answered 236 



XIII 



Page 

Why I Destroyed the Card 241 

Unrolling the Spool 243 

The Lawyer's Story 245 

What One Boy Did 247 

A Helpmeet for Him 249 

The Story of "Old Wiesman" 255 

A Saloon-Keeper's Plea 258 

Eli Perkins Joins a Drinking Club. 261 

What a Tremendous Price 263 

Why the Janitor Was Not Dis- 
charged 266 

When Billy Visited the Mayor 269 

How Jimmy Kept Christmas 271 

When the Barracks Went Dry 274 

A Fateful New Year 280 

Granny Hobart's Easter 286 

Who Pays It 290 

PART ^INCIDENTS 

Only a Vote 303 

New Shoe9 304 

"I'll Never Steal Again If Father 

Kills Me for It" 306 

What Became of Them 309 

His Drink Cure 309 

Just One Drink 310 

The Tearless Handkerchief 311 

It Saves the Boys 312 

Jack and His Hard Lump 313 

The Work of a Saloon 314 

"Papa Made Me Drunk" 316 

Gospel Temperance 316 

Waiting for His Drunken Mother. .317 
Her Unique Definition of Teetotal- 
ism 318 

Brave Bill and His Enemy 318 

A Reply to the Moderate Drinker. .319 

Sailors of the Maine 319 

A Good Judge of Whisky 320 

A Pathetic Story 321 

Broke His Pledge 322 

A Five-Dollar Investment 323 

The Moderate Drinking Habit His 

Ruin 326 

Change Your Hitching Post! ...'.'. '.328 

A Girl Drunkard 329 

Who's to Blame !.!'.' 331 

The Saloon-Keeper and His Chiid.'331 

1 hat Boy 333 

Jim's Practical Address '.'. '. ... '.'.'.' ' 334 

Did Not Like the Crowd .335 

The Engineer's Remedy Z30 



XIV 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The Rum-Seller's Dream 337 

Ingersoll's and Buckley's View of a 

Whiskey Bottle 338 

Closed on Account of Death 339 

Stopped the Train Three Times... 341 

The Saloon 342 

Drinking Up Farms 342 

A Temperance Coat 343 

The Bold Apprentice 343 

Jack and His Shipmates 344 

Who Killed the Boy? 345 

The Root Beer Fraud 346 

Jamaica Ginger 347 

A Woman's Estimate 348 

Saved His Hand 349 

Those Who Drink Are Dead 350 

What Drink Did 350 

Bad Company 351 

Not Worth the Price 351 

Oh, Thou Cursed Drink! 352 

A Wife Became an Open Book... 354 

Diary of a Rum Seller 354 

The License Plan 355 

Ypur Boy Among the Possibilities. 356 

Liquid Bread 356 

Wanted: A Bartender 357 

A Soldier's Story 358 

How the Saloon Was Closed 358 

Rescued Men 360 

What Ruins Girls 361 

The Rum Sellers Equivalent 362 

Advertisement of Rum - Voting 

Churches 364 

The Light Wine Fallacy 365 

Loved and Lost 367 

Our Civilization for Savages 369 

The Most Dangerous Tempters. . .369 

Could Not Be Bought 370 

A Surgeon's Temperance 372 

Preaching in Prison 372 

When the Unexpected Happened. .374 

A Father's Responsibility 376 

Over a Glass of Wine 376 

More of Whiskey's Work 378 

John G. Woolley's Conversion 380 

In the Dives of St. Louis 381 

Why He Swore Off 383 

A Lesson of Pathos from the Po- 
lice Court ....384 

A Straight Transaction 385 

Fermented Wine at the Sacrament.386 
Pathetic Case of Oscar B. Byor. . .387 

Robert Jolley's Tragedy 389 

Drank No More Tears 389 

Jonathan Rigdon's Monument 390 



Page 

A Touching Letter 392 

The Captain's Method 393 

The Liquor Dealer's Diary 393 

Who Is the Criminal? 395 

Whose Fault? 396 

His Mother's Crusade 397 

The Twin Evils 398 

More Insane Soldiers 398 

A Tramp's Speech 399 

A Good Investment 400 

Hand Over the Reins 401 

Hurrying Hellward 402 

Alcoholism in Children 402 

Saved by a Kind Word 403 

Quaker's Temperance Lecture 404 

A Castor Oil Treat 404 

A Young Business Man's Reforma- 
tion 405 

An Ill-Fated Sleighride 40S 

The Lawyer's Lesson 406 

The Bartender's Reformation 407 

Why He Refused 408 

The Elephant and Python 403 

Boy Wanted 409 

A Strong Argument 410 

A Little Indulgence and What 

Came of It 410 

The Last Words of a Drunkard. . .411 

The Beginning and the End 413 

The Saloon-Keeper 413 

The First Glass 415 

"MyGuests Touch No Wine" 416 

Sheridan and His Son 417 

The Oppressor 417 

The Little Shoes 419 

A Promise to a Mother 420 

"We Played Cards and Drank 

Wine" 421 

A Drunkard's Will 422 

They Had Been There 422 

Mr. Gladstone's Temperance Work.423 

The Saloon and Children 424 

Sunshine or Shadow 425 

Bottles Make Rags 425 

A Word About a Drop 426 

Flavored With Brandy 426 

Be Not Deceived 427 

The Commander's Placards 428 

What's Your Boy Worth 428 

Keep the Pledge .430 

"What It Feeds On" ....431 

A Village Disgrace 432 

The Serpent of Drink 432 

Why Kipling Quit Drinking Beer. 433 
Gen. Fred Grant on Drink 434 



CONTENTS 



xv 



Page 

Wilson Whisky 436 

Correspondence Between the Rum 

Seller and the Devil 436 

"New York's Wildest Orgy" 439 

What Whiskey Made of a Father. .441 

Story of a Jackknife 442 

Playing the Fool 442 

The Cost of a Boy 443 

A Mother's Influence 443 

The Dying Child's Prayer for Her 

Drunken Father 444 

Why He Quit Drinking 445 

'Til Take What Father Takes"... 445 

A Sharp Rejoinder 446 

Nerveless Drinkers 447 

They Hold the Key 448 

Conquered by a Drinking Cup 449 

A Policeman's Testimony 449 

Whiskey's Deadly Work 449 

Alcohol Ahead 452 

Wanted: Boys for Customers 452 

Who Am I? Whisky, "That's All". 453 

The Item That Told 454 

A Horrible Idea 454 

That Sobered Me 455 

Don't Marry a Drunkard 456 

Twin Demons — A Colloquy 456 

The Great Destroyer 458 

How a Drunkard Was Saved 461 

How to Make a Good Boy 461 

Christian(?) Civilization, Mission- 
aries and Rum 462 

The Brandy Peach 462 

"Am I to Blame?" 464 

A Correct Answer 464 

Remorse and Retribution 464 

The Closing Scene 465 

An Indian Temperance Pledge 466 

A Mother's Struggle 468 

Plague-Spots 469 

Saved by Reverence for the Bible. .469 

How Liquor Affects the Heart 470 

Hogs Worth More Than Men! 471 

Benjamin Franklin's Experience. . .472 
Report of a Government Investiga- 
tion 473 

Largest Business Men Don't Drink.473 
Discharged for Entering a Store. .474 

A Bank's Temperance Rule 475 

A Physician's Blunder 475 

Sensible Words from a Senior. . . . .476 
Moral Suasion or Prohibtion, 

Which Shall It Be? 477 

And Whiskey Did It 478 

The Struggle With Appetite 480 

Charles Lamb to Young Men 482 



Page 

PARTffl 
POINTED PARAGRAPHS 

Pointed Paragraphs 485 to 504 

PART IV- POEMS 

The Saloon-Keeper's Cash Drawer 

Bell 507 

"Whiskey, That's All" 508 

Rum's Maniac .512 

The Drunkard's Daughter 513 

"If" .513 

Blood-Money 514 

The Shadow ....515 

The Drunkard's Wife 515 

Under the License Law 515 

Asked and Answered 516 

A Voice from the Poorhouse 517 

The Sign Board 517 

The Part They Do Not Tell 518 

The Jolly Distiller 518 

Can It Be Right? 518 

A Boy Wanted 519 

The Drunkard's Fate 519 

"The Beer That Made Milwaukee 

Famous" 519 

"I Have Drunk My Last Glass"... 519 

That's So 520 

Who Is to Blame? 521 

Poorhouse Nan 521 

The Crimson Ballot 522 

Vote It Down 523 

Don't Marry a Man to Reform Him.523 

What Whiskey Will Do 523 

The Saloon Bar 524 

Saloon-Keeper's Soliloquy 524 

Ladies' Entrance 525 

Ode to Americans 526 

The Saloon-Keeper's Side 527 

The Budweiser Brand 528 

The Consumer's Side 529 

The March of the Drink Brigade. .530 

PARTV-SONGS 

World Is Going Dry 533 

The Right Shall Prevail 533 

Stand Up for Temperance 533 

When Rum Shall Cease to Reign.. 533 

God Bless Our Cause 534 

The World Is Growing Bright 534 

Storm the Fort for Prohibition 534 

Hurrah for Prohibition 534 

The Great Movement 535 

When We Vote the Saloons Out. .535 



XVI 



CONTENTS 



Page 

No License Shall Triumph 535 

The Temperance Wave 536 

No License Forever 536 

Say, Voters, Are You Ready? 536 

Temperance Folks, Wake Up 536 

Come and Join Our Army 537 

Our Country 537 

We'll Defend Our Homes 537 

Voting for No License 537 

No License Is Our Theme 538 

A Day of Wrath 538 

Hold the Fort for No License 538 

Hail Columbia 7 538 

Mourning at the Old Hearthstone. 539 
From the Mountains to the Sea. . . .539 

Voter's Consecration .539 

A Temperance Campaign Song. . . .539 
Our Coming Banner 540 



Page 
Sweeping the Land with Prohibi- 
tion 540 

Evils of Intemperance 540 

Our Battle Cry No License 541 

The Temperance Banner 541 

A Call to Workmen 541 

The No-License Banner 542 

The Good Time Coming 542 

Light of the Truth Is Breaking. . .542 

Storm the Fort for No License 543 

Brave Temperance Men 543 

We'll Do and Dare 543 

Crush the Monster 543 

Dare We License? 544 

Prayer for Light and Help 544 

Dixie Land for Temperance 544 

Battle Cry of Temperance 544 

Temperance Doxology 544 



PART I 

STORIES 



Stories of Hell's Gommerce 

OR 
The Liquor Traffic in its True Light 

STORY OF A LITTLE LIFE. 

"What is your name?" asked the teacher. 

"Tommy Brown, ma'am," answered the boy. 

He was a pathetic little figure, with a thin face, hollow eyes and pale 
cheeks, that plainly told of insufficient food. He wore a suit of clothes 
evidently made for someone else. They were patched in places with 
cloth of different colors. His shoes were old, his hair cut square in the 
neck in the unpracticed manner in which women sometimes cut boys' 
hair. It was a bitter day, yet he wore no overcoat, and his bare hands 
were red with the cold. 

"How old are you, Tommy?" 

"Nine years old come next April. I've learned to read at home, 
and I can cipher a little." 

"Well, it is time for you to begin school. Why have you never 
come before?" 

The boy fumbled with a cap in his hands, and did not reply at once. 
It was a ragged cap with frayed edges, and the original color of the 
fabric no man could tell. 

Presently he said, "I never went to school 'cause — 'cause — well, 
mother takes in washin', and' she couldn't spare me. But Sissy is big 
enough now to help, an' she minds the baby besides." 

It was not quite time for school to begin. All around the teacher 
and the new scholar stood the boys that belonged in the room. 

While he was making his confused explanation some of the boys 
laughed, and one of them called out, "Say, Tommy, where are your cuffs 
and collars?" And another sang out, "You must sleep in the rag-bag 
at night by the looks of your clothes !" Before the teacher could quiet 
them, another boy had volunteered the information that the father of the 
boy was "old Si Brown, who is always as drunk as a fiddler." 

The poor child looked around on his tormentors like a hunted thing. 
Then, before the teacher could detain him, with a suppressed cry of 



20 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

misery he ran out of the room, out of the building, down the street, and 
was seen no more. 

The teacher went to her duties with a troubled heart. All day long 
the child's pitiful face haunted her. She could not rid herself of the 
memory of it. After a little trouble she found the place where he lived, 
and then two kind ladies went to visit him. 

It was a dilapidated house. When they first entered they could 
scarcely discern objects, the room was so filled with the steam of the 
soapsuds. There were two windows, but a tall brick building adjacent 
shut out the light. It was a gloomy day, too, with gray, lowering clouds 
that forbade even the memory of sunshine. 

A woman stood before a wash tub. When they entered, she wiped 
her hands on her apron, and came forward to meet them. 

Once she had been pretty, but the color had gone out of her face, 
leaving only sharpened outlines and haggardness of expression. 

She asked them to sit down; then taking a chair herself, she said, 
"Sissy, give me the baby." 

A little girl came forward from a dark corner of the room, carrying 
a baby that she laid in its mother's lap, a lean and sickly-looking baby, 
with the same hollow eyes that Tommy had. 

"Your baby doesn't look strong," said one of the ladies. 

"No, ma'am, she ain't very well. I have to work hard, and I expect 
it affects her." 

"Where is your little Tommy?" asked one of the visitors. 

"He is in there in the trundle-bed," replied the mother. 

"Is he sick?" 

"Yes'm, and the doctor thinks he ain't going to get well." At this 
the tears ran down her thin and faded cheeks. 

"What is the matter with him?" 

"He was never very strong, and he's had to work too hard, carrying 
water and helping me lift the wash tubs and things like that. Of late he 
has been crazy to go to school. I never could spare him till this winter. 
He thought if he could get a little education he'd be able to take care of 
Sissy and baby and me. So I fixed up his clothes as well as I could, and 
last week he started. I was afraid the boys would laugh at him, but he 
thought he could stand it if they did. I stood at the door and watched 
him going. I can never forget how the little fellow looked," she con- 
tinued, the tears streaming down her face. "His patched-up clothes, his 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 21 

poor little anxious look. He turned around to me as he left the yard, 
and said, 'Don't worry, mother ; I won't mind what the boys say.' But 
he did mind. It wasn't an hour before he was back again. I believe the 
child's heart was just broke. I thought mine was broke years ago. If 
it was, it was broken over again that day. I can stand most anything 
myself, but oh! I can't bear to see my children suffer." Here she 
broke down in a fit of convulsive weeping. The little girl came up to her 
quietly and stole a thin little arm around her mother's neck. "Don't 
cry, mother," she whispered, "don't cry." 

The woman made an effort to check her tears, and she wiped her 
eyes. As soon as she could speak with any degree of calmness, she 
continued : 

"Poor little Tommy cried all day ; I couldn't comfort him. He said 
Jt was no use trying to do anything. Folks would only laugh at him for 
being a drunkard's little boy. I tried to comfort him before my husband 
came home. I told him his father would be mad if he saw him crying. 
But it wasn't any use. Seemed like he could not stop. His father came 
and saw him. He wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been drinking. He 
ain't a bad man when he is sober. I hate to tell it, but he whipped 
Tommy and the child fell and struck his head. I suppose he'd 'a' been 
sick anyway. But oh ! my poor little boy. My sick, suffering child !" 
she cried. "How can they let men sell a thing that makes the innocent 
suffer so?" 

One of the ladies went to the bed. There he lay, poor little defense- 
less victim. He lived in a Christian land, in a country that takes great 
care to pass laws to protect sheep, and diligently legislates over its game. 
Would that the children were as precious as brutes and birds ! Would 
that the law was more jealous of little waifs' rights ! 

His face was flushed, and the hollow eyes were bright. There was 
a long, purple mark on his temple. He put up one little wasted hand 
to cover it, while he said, "Father wouldn't have done it if he hadn't 
been drinking." Then, in his queer, piping voice, weak with sickness, 
he half whispered, "I'm glad I'm going to die. I'm too weak ever to help 
mother anyhow. Up in heaven the angels ain't going to call me the 
drunkard's child, and make fun of my clothes. And maybe, if I'm right 
up there where God is, I can keep reminding him of mother; and he 
will make it easier for her." 

He turned his head feebly on his pillow, and then said, in a lower 



22 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

tone, "Some day — they ain't going — to let saloons — keep open. But 
I'm afraid — poor father — will be dead — before then." Then he shut 
his eyes from weariness. 

The next morning the sun shone in on the dead face of little 
Tommy. — Our Young Folks. 

THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP. 

"Pledge with wine, pledge with wine," cried the young and thought- 
less Harvey Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the bridal party. 

The beautiful bride grew pale; the decisive hour had come. She 
pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of the bridal wreath 
trembled on her brow ; her breath came quicker, and her heart beat wilder. 

"Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the judge 
in a low tone, going toward his daughter ; "the company expects it. Do 
not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette. In your own home 
do as you please; but in mine, for this once, please me." 

Pouring a brimming cup, they held it, with tempting smiles, toward 
Marion. She was very pale, though composed ; and her hand shook not, 
as smiling back, she gracefully accepted the crystal tempter, and raised 
it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested 
by her piercing exclamation of "O, how terrible !" 

"What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had 
slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it. 

"Wait," she answered, while a light, which seemed inspired, shone 
from her dark eyes — "wait, and I will tell you. I see," she added 
slowly, pointing one finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, "a sight that 
beggars all description ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you, if I can. 
It is a lovely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful 
sublimity around ; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the 
water's edge. But there a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro, 
with something like sorrow upon their dark brows. And in the midst 
lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly! his eyes wild with the 
fitful fire of fever. One friend stands before him — nay, I should say, 
kneels ; for see, he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast. 

"O ! the high, holy-looking brow. Why should death mark it, and he 
so young? Look, how he throws back the damp curls ! See him clasp 
his hands? Hear his thrilling shrieks for life! Mark how he clutches 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 23 

at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved! O! hear him call 
piteously his father's name, see him twine his ringers together as he 
shrieks for his sister — his only sister, the twin of his soul, weeping for 
him in his distant native land. 

"See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the 
untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell 
overpowered upon his seat — "see! his arms are lifted to heaven — he 
prays — how wildly ! for mercy; hot fever rushes through his veins. He 
moves not ; his eyes are set in their sockets ; dim are their piercing 
glances ; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister — death 
is there. Death — and no soft hand, no gentle voice to soothe him. His 
head sinks back; one convulsive shudder — he is dead!" 

A groan ran through the assembly ; so vivid was her description, so 
unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described 
seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed, also, 
that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands, and was weeping. 

"Dead !" she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 
her voice more broken; "and there they scoop him a grave; and there, 
without a shroud, they lay him down in that damp, reeking earth, the 
only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. 
There he lies, my father's son, my own twin brother, a victim to this 
deadly poison. Father!" she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the 
tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, "father, shall I drink it now?" 

The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised not 
his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered : 

"No, no, my child ; no !" 

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the 
floor, it was dashed in a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched 
her movement, and instantaneously every wine glass was transferred 
to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked 
at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying, "Let no 
friend hereafter who loves me tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not 
firmer are the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never 
to touch or taste the poison cup. And he to whom I have given my 
hand, who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn 
hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of 
gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve." 

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile, were her answer. The 



24 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

judge left the room, and when, an hour after, he returned, and with a 
more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal 
guests, no one could fail to read that he had determined to banish the 
enemy forever from his princely home. — "Touching Incidents and Re- 
markable Answers to Prayer." 

THE OLD TEMPERANCE LECTURER. 

I shall never forget the commencement of the temperance reforma- 
tion. I was a child at the time, of some ten years of age. Our home 
had every comfort, and my kind parents idolized me, their only child. 
Wine was often on the table, and both my father and mother gave it to 
me in the bottom of the morning glass. 

On Sunday, at church, a startling announcement was made to our 
people. I knew nothing of its purport, but there was much whispering 
among the men. The pastor said that on the next evening there would 
be a meeting and an address on the evils of intemperance in the use of 
alcoholic liquors. He expressed himself ignorant of the meeting, and 
could not say what course it would be best to pursue in the matter. 

The subject of the meeting came up at our table after service, and I 
questioned my father about it with all the curious earnestness of a child. 
The whispers and words which had been dropped in my hearing clothed 
the whole affair with great mystery to me, and I was all earnestness to 
learn the strange thing. My father merely said it was a scheme to unite 
the church and State. 

I well remember how the people appeared as they came in, seeming 
to wonder what kind of an exhibition was coming off. 

In the corner was the tavern-keeper, and around him a number of 
his friends. For an hour the people of the place continued to come in, 
till there was a fair household. All were curiously watching the door, 
and apparently wondering what would appear next. The parson stole 
in and took his seat behind a pillar in the gallery, as if doubtful of the 
propriety of being in the church at all. 

Two men finally came in and went forward to the altar and took 
their seats. All eyes were fixed upon them, and a general stillness pre- 
vailed throughout the house. 

The men were unlike in appearance, one being short, thick-set in his 
build, and the other tall and well formed. The younger had the manner 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 25 



and dress of a clergyman, a full, round face, and a quiet, good-natured 
look as he leisurely looked around his audience. 

But my childish interest was all in the old man. His broad, deep 
chest, and unusual height looked giant-like as he strode up the aisle. His 
hair was white, his brow deeply scarred with furrows, and around his 
handsome mouth, lines of calm and touching sadness. His eyes were 
black and restless, and kindled as .the tavern-keeper uttered a low jest. 
His lips were compressed, and a crimson flush went and came over his 
pale cheek. One arm was off above the elbow, and there was a wide 
scar above his right eye. 

The younger finally arose and stated the object of the meeting, and 
asked if there were a clergyman present to open with a prayer. Our 
pastor kept his seat, and the speaker himself made a short address ; at 
the conclusion calling upon any one to make remarks. The pastor arose 
under the gallery and attacked the position of the speaker, using the 
arguments which I have often heard since, and concluded by denouncing 
those engaged in the movement as meddlesome fanatics who wished to 
break up the time-honored usages of good society and injure the business 
of respectable men. At the conclusion of his remarks the tavern-keeper 
and his friends got up a cheer, and the current of feeling was evidently 
against the strangers and their plan. 

While the pastor was speaking the old man had leaned forward and 
fixed his dark eyes upon him, as if to catch every word. 

As the pastor took his seat the old man arose — -his tall form tower- 
ing in its symmetry, and his chest swelling as he inhaled the breath 
through his thin, dilated nostrils. To me, at that time, there was some- 
thing awe-inspiring and grand in the appearance of the old man as he 
stood, his eyes full upon the audience, his teeth shut hard, and a silence 
like that of death throughout the church. 

He bent his gaze upon the tavern-keeper, and that peculiar eye 
lingered and kindled for half a moment. The scar grew red upon his 
forehead, and beneath the heavy brows his eyes glittered and glowed 
like a serpent's; the tavern-keeper quailed before that searching glance, 
and I felt a relief when the old man withdrew his gaze. In a moment 
more he seemed lost in thought, and then, in a low and tremulous tone, 
he commenced. 

There was a depth in that voice, a thrilling sweetness and pathos, 
which riveted every heart in the church before the first period had been 



26 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

rounded. My father's attention had become fixed upon the eyes of the 
speaker with an interest I had never before seen him exhibit. I can 
but briefly remember the substance of what the old man said, though 
the scene is as vivid before me as any I have ever witnessed. 

"My friends! I am a stranger in your village, and I trust I may 
call you friends. A new star has arisen, and there is hope in the dark 
night that hangs like a pall of gloom over our country." 

With a thrilling depth of voice the speaker continued: "Oh, God, 
Thou who lookest with compassion upon the most erring of earth's 
frail children, I thank thee that a brazen serpent has been lifted up on 
which a drunkard can look and be healed. That beacon has burst out 
upon the darkness that surrounds him, which shall guide back to honor 
and heaven the bruised and weary wanderer/' 

It is strange what power there is in some voices in every tone, and, 
before I knew why, a tear dropped on my hand, followed by others, like 
rain-drops. The old man brushed one from his eye, and continued : 

"Men and Christians, you have just heard that I am a vagrant and 
fanatic. I am not. As God knows my own sad heart, I came here just 
to do good. Hear me and be just. 

"I am an old man standing alone at the end of life's journey. There 
is a deep sorrow in my heart and tears in my eyes. I have journeyed 
over a dark, beaconless ocean, and all life's brightest hopes have been 
wrecked. I am without friends, home or kindred on earth, and look 
with longing to the rest of the night of death. Without friends, kindred 
or home ! I was not once so." 

No one could stand the touching pathos of the old man. I noticed a 
tear trembling on the lid of my father's eye, and I no longer felt 
ashamed of my own. 

"No, my friends, it was not once so. Away over the dark waves 
which have wrecked hopes, there is a blessed light of happiness and 
home. I reach again convulsively for the shrines of household idols that 
once were mine; now mine no more." 

The old man seemed looking away through vacancy upon some 
bright vision, his lips apart and his finger extended. I involuntarily 
turned in the direction in which it was pointed, dreading to see some 
shadow invoked by its magic moving. 

"I once had a mother. With her old heart crushed with sorrow 
she went down to the grave. I once had a wife — as fair angel-hearted 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 27 



creature as ever smiles in an earthly home. Her eye was as mild as c 
summer's sky, and her heart as faithful and true as ever guarded and 
cherished a husband's love. Her blue eyes grew dim as the floods of sorrow 
washed away their brightness, and the living heart was wrung till every 
fibre was broken. I once had a noble, a bright and beautiful boy, but he 
was driven out from the ruins of his home, and my old heart yearns to 
know if he yet lives. I once had a babe, a sweet, tender blossom ; but 
those hands destroyed it, and it lives with One who loveth children. 

"Do not be startled, friends — I am not a murderer in the common 
acceptance of the term. Yet there is a light in my evening sky. A spirit 
mother rejoices over the return of her prodigal son. The wife smiles 
upon him who turns back to virtue and honor. The angel child visits me 
at nightfall, and I feel the hallowing touch of a tiny palm upon my 
feverish cheek. My brave boy, if he yet lives, would forgive the sorrow^ 
ing old man for the treatment which sent him into the world, and the 
blow that lamed him for life. God forgive me for the ruin which I 
brought upon myself and mine." 

He again wiped a tear from his eyes. My father watched with a 
strange intensity, and a countenance unusually pale and excited by 
some strong emotion. 

"I was once a fanatic and madly followed' the malign light which 
led me to ruin. I was a fanatic when I sacrificed my wife, children, 
happiness and home to the accursed demon of the bowl. I once adored 
the gentle being whom I wronged so deeply. 

"I was a drunkard. From respectability and affluence, I plunged 
into degradation and poverty. I dragged my family down with me. For 
years I saw her cheek pale, and her step grow weary. I left her alone at 
the wreck of her home idols and rioted at the tavern. She never com- 
plained, yet she and the children often went hungry for bread. 

"One New Year night I returned late to the hut where charity had 
given us a roof. She was still up, shivering over the coals. I demanded 
food, but she burst into tears and told me there was none. I fiercely 
ordered her to get some. She turned her sad eyes upon me, the tears 
falling fast over her pale cheek. 

"At this moment the child in the cradle awoke and set up a famished 
wail, startling the despairing mother like a serpent's sting. 

' 'We have no food, James — have had none for two days. I have 
nothing for the baby. My once kind husband, must we starve?' 



28 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"That sad, pleading face, and those streaming eyes, and the feeble 
wail of the child maddened me, and I, yes, I — struck her a fierce blow in 
the face, and she fell forward upon the earth. The furies of hell boiled 
in my bosom, and with deep intensity, as I felt I had committed a 
wrong. I had never struck Mary before, but now some terrible impulse 
bore me on, and I stooped down as well as I could in my drunken state 
and clinched both hands in her hair. 

" 'God have mercy/ exclaimed my wife, as she looked up in my 
fiendish countenance; 'you will not kill us, you will not harm Willie/ 
as she sprang to the cradle and grasped him in her embrace. I caught 
her again by the hair, and dragged her to the door, and as I lifted the 
latch the wind burst in with a cloud of snow. With the yell of a fiend 
I still dragged her on, and hauled her out in the darkness and the storm. 
With a loud Ha! Ha! I closed the door and turned the button, her 
pleading moans mingled with the wail of the blast and the sharp cry of 
her babe. But my work was not complete. I turned to the little bed 
where lay my oldest son, and snatched him from his slumbers, and, 
against his half-awakened struggles, opened the door and threw him 
out. In an agony of fear he called me by a name I was not longer fit to 
bear, and locked his little fingers in my side-pocket. I could not wrench 
that frenzied grasp away, and, with the coolness of a devil I was, I 
shut the door upon his arm, and with my knife severed the wrist !" 

The speaker ceased a moment and buried his face in his hands, as if 
to shut out some fearful dream, and his deep chest heaved like a storm- 
swept sea. My father had risen from his seat and was leaning forward 
his countenance bloodless, and the large drops standing out upon his 
brow. Chills crept back to my heart, and I wished that I was at home. 
The old man looked up, and I have never since beheld such mortal 
agony pictured upon a human face as there was on his. 

"It was morning when I awoke, and the storm had ceased, but the 
cold was intense. I first secured a drink of water and then I looked in 
the accustomed place for Mary. As I first missed her, a shadow sense 
of some horrible nightmare began to dawn upon my wandering mind. 
I thought I had dreamed a fearful dream, but involuntarily opened the 
door with a shuddering dread. 

"As the door opened the snow burst in, followed by, a fall of some- 
thing across the threshold, scattering the cold snow and striking the floor 
with a hard, sharp sound. My blood shot like red-hot arrows through 1 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 29 

my veins, and I rubbed my eyes to shut out the sight. It was — oh, 
God, how horrible! — it was my own injured Mary and her babe, frozen 
to ice. The ever true mother had bowed herself over the child to shield- 
it, and had wrapped all her own clothing around it, leaving her own 
person stark and bare to the storm. She had placed her hair over the 
face of the child, and the sleet had frozen it to the white cheek. The 
frost was white in its half-open eyes and upon its tiny fingers. I know 
not what became of my brave boy." 

Again the old man bowed his head and wept, and all that were in 
the house wept with him. In tones of low, broken-hearted pathos, the 
old man concluded : 

"I was arrested, and for long months I raved in delirium. I awoke, 
and was sentenced to prison for ten years, but no tortures could equal 
those endured in my own bosom. Oh, God, no ! I am not a fanatic ; I 
wish to injure no one. But, while I live, let me strive to warn others not 
to enter the path which has been such a dark and fearful one to me. 
I would see my angel wife and children beyond this vale of tears." 

The old man sat down, but a spell as deep and strange as that 
wrought by some wizard's breath rested upon the audience. Hearts 
could have been heard in their beating, and tears to fall. The old man 
then asked the people to sign the pledge. My father leaped from his 
seat and snatched at it eagerly. I had followed him as he hesitated a 
moment with his pen in the ink; a tear fell from the old man's eyes 
upon the paper. 

"Sign it, young man, sign it. Angels would sign it. I would write 
my name ten thousand times in blood if it would bring back my loved 
ones." 

My father wrote "Mortimer Hudson." 

The old man looked, wiped his tearful eyes, and looked again, his 
countenance alternately flashed with red and a death-like paleness. 

"It is — no, it cannot be; yet how strange," muttered the old man. 
"Pardon me, sir; but that is the name of my own brave boy." 

My father trembled and held up his left arm, from which the hand had 
been severed. They looked for a moment into each other's eyes, both 
reeled and gasped : 

"My own injured boy !" 

"My father!" 

They fell upon each other till it seemed their souls would grow and 



30 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

mingle into one. There was weeping in that church, and I turned 
bewildered upon the streaming faces around me. 

"My boy !" exclaimed the old man, and kneeling down he poured out 
his heart in one of the most melting prayers I ever heard. The spell 
was broken, and all eagerly signed the pledge, slowly going to their 
homes, as if loath to leave the spot. 

The old man is dead, but the lesson he taught his grandchild on his 
knee as the evening sun went down without a cloud will never be 
forgotten. — Selected by Kentucky Patriot. 

THE VOICE OF THE TRUMPET. 

David might have turned and twisted restlessly on his bed, but he 
could not. There had been a time — not long since — when his mother 
had plentifully teased him for the tangle of bed clothes that bore daily 
witness to the dream-flings of healthy young limbs. Now they tossed 
no more. For the only son of his widowed mother, forever a helpless 
cripple by one of those strange providences which we misname accidents, 
lay quiet day after day, only the restless head and arms able to give 
expression to inward disquiet. 

It was a glorious summer morning — that perfect early summer 
time before the full ripening that precedes fall's change and decay had 
fully set in. The small windows of the upper chamber where the young 
man lay admitted gentle drifts of the fragrant air. A Bible lay under 
his hand, but his eyes glanced, now yearningly across the fields to the 
milt district in the valley, now with still greater yearning toward a bur- 
nished object which threw out miniature sunrays from its place upon 
the wall. 

"Thinking, Davie boy?" His mother made one of her many brief 
visits to the chamber where the lad lay, dropping her work oftener than 
was profitable to their common purse. "We must have you brought 
downstairs on all these warm summer days." She stood a moment 
looking at him, and then, with a quick movement, took down from its 
hook on the wall the cornet that hung there. "David !" she said earnestly, 
"I believe — it has just come to me — that God has still some use for 
your talent. Here, dear, try!" 

She blew imaginary specks of dust from the gleaming curves and 
placed the precious instrument in his hands. You did not work a whole 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 31 

summer's evenings in the neighbors' gardens to buy that, and then work 
all winter out of hours and in sleeping hours to get lessons, for nothing. 
I know it, son ! God never does contrary things. You gave Him your 
love of music, dear, and gave Him your lips and your life. And He 
accepted them. You know, sometimes a mother is a prophet in Israel. 
Use your talent, Davie. You do not absolutely need legs for playing." 
It takes courage to be courageous. David McNair was naturally 
brave. If he seemed to have given up the struggle to be somebody worth 
while for the Master's sake, it was but a pause in the battle — a pause 
while he studied the change of base and adjusted himself to the new 
opposition, the new difficulties to be overcome by spirit, since he could 
hardly work through the flesh much any more forever, so great a part of 
the human frame of him being partially dead. The spirit of the brave 
little woman infused itself through his spirit. He put the horn to his 
lips, and, after a false note or two, there rang out in the little room and 
on out into the quiet valley beyond the cottage windows the opening bars 
of "The King's Business." It was that hymn David had played when 
for the first time in public he spoke for his Master "by the voice of the 
trumpet," and the voice of the silver trumpet spoke the keynote of 
his life: 

This is the message that I bring, 

A message angels fain would sing: 

"O be ye reconciled," thus saith my Lord and King! 

"O be ye reconciled to God!" 

"Man ! But that's a sound for sick ears !" spoke a man's voice at the 
bedroom door as the cornet-voice faltered and broke, and David, wearily 
— for he did not gain strength lying day after day — dropped the 
instrument beside him. "Play on, lad ! Ye've no need to be standin' 
on end when ye can send yer voice to the ends of the earth that way !" 

"That's just what I've been telling him," said Mrs. McNair. "You'll 
sit with him awhile, Tom? I've to go to the village after some groceries. 
It's lonesome up here for him — we'll be having him down in a day 
or two, or soon as I can get the little east room fixed up for him." 

"Man ! I'd lie down in yer stead," said Tom Thompson, putting his 
old hat under a chair and sitting down close to the bed, "if it was given 
me. The drink devil couldn't beat me then ! And you'd be out with the 
Army telling the good news with your silver mouth." 

Tom Thompson was the village man of all trades, whose chiefest 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



trade was trading off his manhood and his earnings for drink. Time and 
again had the Salvation Army lads and lassies tried to lead the poor, 
habit-wrecked man to the sure rock of salvation in Christ Jesus, but 
always temptation conquered the new resolve — resolves made and en- 
deavored to be kept in human strength. David alone, whose "silver 
mouth" exercised something akin to a spell over poor Thompson, had 
still strong faith that some day Tom would be saved. Since the "acci- 
dent" that had lain him aside, paralyzed for life, one of his great sorrows 
was that no more could he follow the poor victim to the haunts of the 
drink-fiend and draw him home to wife and children, sometimes by 
persuasion, sometimes by friendly force, according to the degree of 
inebriety attained. 

"Play some more, Davie, boy! Play you 'King's Business,' " begged 
Tom, who was a passionate music lover, and who, in those golden days 
when he courted his sweetheart with lips and hands that were not shak- 
ing with alcoholic disease, had been no mean player upon an instrument 
of his own. 

The flush of a new interest in the monotonous day mantled David 
McNair's pale cheeks. Putting the cornet to his lips, he played a few 
bars, when Tom interrupted him. 

"Wait a bit — I've an idea! Would it hurt you if I moved the bed? 
It's most noon — the whistles'll blow in a minute. If you play out of 
the window, the wind's right and the men'll hear when they come out of 
the mills. There ! Now play, lad, and God bless ye !" 

David played, and the wind was right, and the clear notes floated 
away and away to the not-distant mill district just as the operatives 
poured out of the doors. 

"What's that?" said one man to another as they turned their steps 
hastily toward the nearest saloon for the noonday pails of beer. 

"It's David McNair's horn, or his ghost a-playin' it. Listen ! 

"My home is brighter far 
Than Sharon's rosy plain," 

hummed the speaker,not thinking how drink was despoiling the earthly 
home it was his to make fair by a clean manhood while he stayed below. 
"It's Davie for sure. God bless the poor lad ! Aw, come on, boys, 
let's cut out the beer today, for his sake ! It's often he's told us it would 
do us harm. Maybe he's right and maybe he ain't. Anyhow, it never 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



did him no harm to let it alone. Let's cheat Al Bozeman out of his 
nickels today !" 




Courtesy 

New York Weekly Witness 



"David played, 

and the wind was right' 

"An' gie them to David?" half sneered another. 

"Well, why not? He can't look to the drum-head any more, poor 



34 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

fellow, and his mother's a widow. Why not, boys? Let's do it today. 
It's a decent thought." 

The speaker, big Ross Roland, sprang to an upturned barrel as he 
spoke, and in two minutes more had arrested the attention and the steps 
of most of the stream of men setting toward' Al Bozeman and other 
dispensers of the glass that does not cheer. It took but a few clear sen- 
tences to make the project plain. "Tooting Davie," as they had called 
him in other days, was a real object of admiration to the men of the 
mills. His stalwart profession for Christ, backed up by genuine manly 
brotherliness to every man he met, was something none of them could 
heartily laugh at or deny, so plainly sincere was it. 

As the cornet-voice again took up the strain of the hymn they knew 
so well by the oft-singing of the Army, someone started to sing. The 
bartenders scowled, if they did not do worse, as a chorus of men's voices 
surged out upon the noontide : 

I am a stranger here, within a foreign land, 
My home is far away upon a golden strand; 
Ambassador to be of realms beyond the sea, 
I'm here on business for my King. 

The men needed no conductor. The up-sweep of a noble thought 
bore them on. They kept time to an impulse from the Spirit of Love. 
Someone jingled a handful of coppers in a pail. A willing hand caught 
it up and it passed from hand to hand. The chorus of the hymn swelled 
grandly, and had the wind set from the singers David could have heard. 
The "silver offering" dropped, not on the Army drum-head, but into the 
lunch pail, where beer would have been that hour but for a young man's 
breath of courage. 

Mrs. McNair spoke but shaken thanks to the man who brought to 
the cottage door that evening, tied in a clean cotton handkerchief, the 
double handful of coins "for the lad." 

" 'Tain't much, missus, but — he'd better have it than Al Bozeman. 
Just tell him it's from the men at the mills. We heard him this noon — 
and it done us no harm." 

It is not part of this story to dwell upon the fact that the mother 
of David McNair had been wondering only that morning if it would be 
wrong to pray for money to put into some paint and wall paper for the 
little east room off the kitchen, where her boy would be moved in a few 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 35 

days. And this offering coming unexpectedly — was it wrong to think 
it was an answer to the half-framed prayer? 

Two or three days later a delegation of his Salvation Army comrades 
called upon the invalid. They did not leave him long without some 
attention. But the King's business for the salvation of souls called them 
out on long days' endeavors, and there were those who more desperately 
needed their ministry than this Christian soldier, laid by from active 
service, but never out of the keeping care and conscious presence of his 
Captain. 

They told him the story of that meeting of the men as it had been 
told to them. They had come to unfold a plan that had grown out of the 
incident. 

"We have been to see the doctor. We have talked with your mother. 
Now we have come to you. As long as you can talk through the cornet 
the way you talked to the men the other day, at a distance, you can still 
do business for the King, but at closer range, Davie. We have prayed 
about it, and the Lord led us to talk to some of the bosses at the mills. 
If you can stand it — and the doctor says it may add years to your life — 
would you be willing to be carried across to the mills once or twice a 
week at noon and play for the men? We have been wanting to begin a 
noon work there for several years, but the way never opened up before. 
The saloons are doing a deadly work — we think now we can begin a 
work of salvation." 

David lay very still. Many thoughts crowded his quick brain. No 
touch of paralysis, physical or spiritual, lay there, and the golden thread 
that bound his thoughts into one strong, living purpose was — the King's 
business. If he might but be about that ! 

"I seem to have little to do about it, boys ! How do you propose to 
carry me?" 

"John McDonough, the richest stockholder, said if you'd consent, the 
company would buy you the easiest adjustable stretcher-chair that money 
can buy. You could be propped up as much or as little as you can bear. 
You can manage it with your own hands, or you can be wheeled or car- 
ried. Do it?" 

I'll do it!" he said, softly, with shining eyes, reaching his hand up 
to the bed-head, where stood his mother, too moved to speak what was 
in her heart. "You are a prophet, mother !" 

It was a wonderful summer and fall for more than one man in the 



36 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Golden Wheat Valley, where the great mills ground their snowy grist 
day and night for the feeding of the millions. The bosses said the best 
investment the company had ever made was the money put into David 
McNair's wheel chair, and the best "backing" they had ever done was 
the countenance they had lent to the work of the Army for the men. 
Drink worked less havoc among the "hands." They were worth more 
and needed less suspicious supervision. The noon meetings were an 
unprecedented success. They went beyond the supervision of the Army, 
and became the interest of every Christian in the community. The 
three churches fell into line, and people came from distant homes to hear 
the "silver mouth" of a crippled lad and the Gospel message voiced by 
earnest speakers to the great audience of men, who rang it back in their 
hearty singing of Gospel songs led by the "silver mouth." 

The very abuse poured out upon the whole scheme by the saloons 
was perhaps the best gauge of the good that was being done. Not that 
they lost all or even most of their custom. The evil habits of life are not 
so soon nor so easily broken. But scores of men turned their feet away 
from the fatal thresholds for the noon hour at least; many mere boys 
who had not yet begun the downward path were withheld by the holy 
influences of that summer's work; and not a few souls were led to 
reconciliation with the God of their salvation and because true soldiers 
of the Captain, Christ Jesus. 

But all summer long it went hard with Tom Thompson. The very 
tug of the noon meetings seemed by some reversal of influence to impel 
him to deeper depths of indulgence. He loved David McNair almost 
as dearly as he loved wife and children ; for it must never be said the 
drunkard does not love. This man loved the "silver mouth" as passion- 
ately as ever, but went by roundabout ways to get beyond the range of 
its pure spell. There were always those who were glad to help him. 
Almost nothing did his drinks cost him that summer. He was good 
bait for Bozeman and his fellows to use to catch bigger game. 

"I don't see how you can keep a-smilin', Mis' Thompson," said a 
neighbor, who suffered a similar affliction in her home, coming in to 
call one day. 

"I could not if I looked at the outside things," Tom's wife made 
answer. "But there's a help inside. And that keeps me. Let me tell 
you what it is, Mrs. Carter. You need it, too, dear. I will read it to 
you right out of the Book, and then you will know I have it right." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 37 

From a stand near by she took an open Bible and read : 

" 'And this is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask 
anything according to His will, He heareth us ; and if we know that He 
hears us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that 
we desired of Him.' I know that it is His will that my Tom should be 
saved, for He is 'not willing that any should perish, but that all should 
come to repentance.' So 'this is the confidence' — and confidence is not 
worry, Mrs. Carter — that I have in him; I have asked according to His 
will, and He has heard, and so I know that I have the petition, and am 
answered." 

"Answered !" The caller pointed, almost with scorn, to the reeling 
man coming down the street — Tom Thompson, drunker even than 
common. 

Mrs. Thompson paled, but the steady light in her eyes did not go 
out. "Though he slay me, yet I will trust Him !" she said. "Yes, dear, 
answered. The answer is laid up beside his promise. I must just do 
my part, whatever I find it to be, and wait His time and way. There's 
a time — for a rose to bloom," she went on, touching a delicate pink 
blossom that had climbed to the kitchen sill, "and a time for a soul to 
be born into the Kingdom. It is all right. My man has begun to be a 
Christian in the knowledge of God — just as the rose had begun to be 
before I ever saw the first shoot above the earth. For He is faithful 
who has promised me !" 

The visitor slipped speechless away as the voice of drunken anger 
sounded close by. Her neighbor's faith was something to wonder at, 
but ! 

* * * * * * sfc 

The noon meeting was interrupted by the ruthless pushing through 
the crowd of twelve-year-old Charlie Thompson, making his way with 
frightened energy to the speaker's stand. David McNair was playing 
the closing strains of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," and the packed audi- 
ence was singing heartily. Straight to the wheel chair went the lad, and, 
when the last notes were done, spoke out : 

"Mr. David, could you come down to our house — now? Pa's awful! 
Ma didn't say to come, but she's there alone, and pa says he'll kill her, 
and I know he said one time he never could do a mean thing when he 
heard you play, and — could you come now?" 

"Sure, Charlie ! Men, take me, quick ! And, friends," he called back, 



38 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

for already the stretcher chair was being borne away on the errand for 
the King, "stay and* pray, all of you who can — pray as you have never 
known how to pray before." 

With the silver cornet clasped tightly in his thin hands, and the 
promise of the Mighty One of Israel girding up his faith, David McNair, 
unable to walk a step, was hurried away. 

No need here to describe in detail the scene that met David's eyes 
as he wheeled himself alone — for so he insisted on being left — into 
the little cottage kitchen. Reasonless, blind, insane, drunken anger had 
demolished the last traces of a home. The children were in hiding. But 
sitting opposite the poor victim of Hell's fire-water — well named! — 
was his wife, quiet, brave and strong in spirit, because in spirit she was 
communing with her Lord. And the sustaining word with her at the 
moment of David McNair's entrance was this : "The angel of the Lord 
encampeth round about them that fear Him and delivereth them." 

A flash of almost incredible joy transfigured the woman's face v/hen 
she saw what help had come. She did not know of her child's errand. 
But if she had she would still have felt that it was the help of God that 
had come to her in that supreme hour. Never before had the drunkard 
threatened her life. Now he had come home with a weapon of death in 
his hands, and had bade her sit still if she would live another hour. She 
knew where her children hid upstairs, and for their sakes she stayed. 

"Well, friends," said David, pushing his chair well inside of the dis- 
ordered room, "I've come to play you a tune — an old favorite. Tom! 
Listen !" And without a moment's delay the silver strains of "The King's 
Business" throbbed softly through the little room, belying the wreckage 
of love's careful handiwork. The woman covered her face. The man's 
right hand lost its grip upon the deadly weapon which he had secured 
from a comrade at the saloon, and dropped harmless at his side. Charlie 
ventured to tiptoe to the side of the wheel chair — with a feeling in his 
boy's heart that he would stay by mother and his friend whatever hap- 
pened. 

This is the King's command, 

That all men everywhere 

Repent and turn away 

From sin's seductive snare; 

That all who will obey 

With Him shall reign for aye, 

And that's my business for my King! 

Tears — they fell from drunken eyes, but they were not maudlin 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 39 

tears this time — ran over the flushed cheeks of the man at the table. 
David paused at the close of the melody, wheeled close to Tom's side, 
between husband and wife, and quietly taking possession of the weapon 
of murder, laid it among his cushions. Then he played again, the music 
breathing softly — as softly as a bird's evensong: 

My home is brighter far 

Than Sharon's rosy plain, 

Eternal light and joy 

Throughout its vast domain; 

My Sovereign bids me tell 

How mortals there may dwell, 

And that's my business for my King! 

The cornet could not speak the words, but the heart of David sang 
them as he played, and the spirit of them was potent. 

"Davie, lad !" Tom Thompson stood upon his feet. Scarce knowing 
that she did so, the wife stood, too. 

"Aye, Tom, poor boy, what is it? Shall I play again?" 

"Play! — Pray! * * * God be merciful * * * a sinner!" 
and partly of his own accord, partly fallen because he could not stand, 
Tom* Thompson fell prone at the feet of the young man. 

David prayed. His hands were unable to reach the head that lay 
across his own helpless limbs, but the hands of his faith took hold on the 
strength of the faith-honoring King who can do in human souls what 
they cannot do for themselves or another. The comrades outside, pray- 
ing men, came in and knelt beside. The wife bowed with her husband. 
The little children came wide-eyed from their hiding places. And sober- 
ing came : for He who can still a sea with a word can arrest the tide of 
drunkenness in mind and body with the same word of His power. Came 
repentance; came forgiveness; came the washing of regeneration by 
faith in Him whose blood was shed for such as these; came peace; came 
the dawn of a new manhood, after tears of true sorrow had done their 
honest work. 

It was almost sunset when the little company broke up. His friends 
were about to turn David's chair — for he was now too exhausted to 
help himself — to the door, when he held up his hand and stopped them. 

"I think I had better tell you all," he said, a curious tremor in his 
voice, "that Tom here is not the only one who has seen victory in his 
soul this afternoon. Reconciliation has come to me, too ! Oh, yes, I 
needed it, dear friends. It has been hard" — he dropped his voice almost 



40 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

to a whisper — "hard, so hard, to be entirely reconciled about — this," 
and he laid his hands upon his helpless limbs. "But I saw a vision this 
afternoon! I wish you would sing — I am too tired to play, I think — 
the chorus again ; it is for me this time !" 

They could not sing strong and clear at first, for their hearts were 
full. Mrs. Thompson could not sing at all. As the chorus filled the 
little kitchen, where the setting sun-rays smiled upon the wreck that was 
the last wreck drink would ever make in that home, she held David's 
hands fast in hers and her husband clasped all in his. 

This is the message that I bring, 

A message angels fain would sing: 

"O be ye reconciled!" thus saith my Lord and King, 

"O be ye reconciled to God!" 

David McNair, reconciled to his "accident," saw with glad vision 
that when God wills He can use a crippled boy as a sacred medium to 
bear the Gospel message of victory over sin to lost souls ; a message 
angels fain would sing! — Ada Melville Shaw in Epworth Herald. 

A THREE-FOLD VICTORY. 

Clang! sounded the bell on the schoolmaster's desk at the close of 
the afternoon session of the village school, bringing the children instantly 
to their feet. The youthful students, eager for a welcome release, were 
ready to bound outwards as soon as they received the word of command. 
Little wonder they stood erect, with hands behind their backs, and as 
quiet as the trees adjoining the playground amidst the stillness of the 
early summer afternoon. They had been taught, to their sorrow, that the 
least infraction of the dominie's rules would bring swift punishment upon 
the head of the culprit. The silence was now intense, all the more since 
they longed for their liberty outside. 

"Jamie Soutar will remain behind !" was the precipitous word of the 
dominie. It came with a suddenness to the "bully" of the school that 
made him tremble from head to foot. Already he had visions of the 
leather tawse that had calloused his hand, if not his heart. 

One more touch of the bell and the children, with military precision, 
marched out, leaving Jamie Soutar face to face with the dominie. 

Time had dealt kindly with Dominie Menzies, and his days were not 
vexed with the numerous intricacies of the present modern school board 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 41 



laws and requirements. He was practically his own master. So long 
as he w r as able to measure up to the ideals of the parochial authorities 
he would be left undisturbed in his efforts to cultivate the minds of the 
youth of the parish. 

The dominie had never married. Village gossips were right for once 
in their rumor that a love disappointment in his earlier days accounted 
for his bachelorhood. Locked up in the old man's heart were thoughts 
of happy times, long since past but not forgotten. Love to him was like 
smoke that rose from out of the sad past, with fumes of sighs for what 
might have been — to him and her. 

"Jamie, come forward !" The lad obeyed. Still trembling, but now 
with growing confidence since he had seen the dominie lock the strap 
in the desk. Besides, the gentler tone in the master's speech unnerved 
him. He was prepared for a thrashing, but not for kind words. Even 
the whitened locks of the dominie that had been touched with the 
invisible ringers of rolling years, appealed to the lad as never before. 

"Jamie, sit down," the master said, looking the boy in the eye as he 
took a seat in front of him. The whole proceedings were as mysterious 
to the "bully" as were the "Decrees of God," taught him in the Shorter 
Catechism. The first word, however, was like the proverbial straw in 
the stream, showing which way the tide was running. 

"Jamie, I saw and heard some things that grieved me greatly on my 
way to school after the noon hour to-day. As you seemed to be the 
leader in the miserable affair, I have given you this opportunity to 
explain matters." 

Jamie was clean trapped and fixed, as much as the hare he had 
trapped in his poaching expedition the night previous, and there was 
no way of escape. He could say nothing at first, and the silence that 
followed the dominie's words, spoken in tender tones, hurt him worse 
than the strap had ever done, which is saying a great deal. 

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" asked the dominie, now 
opening the desk and lifting from it the leather tawse. 

"Weel, sir," he ventured to say, finding his voice at last. "We just 
called her 'Drunken Mag, the toon's hag/ " 

"Jamie," said the master, replacing the strap in his desk and putting 
his hand kindly on the boy's head. "Jamie, suppose Margaret MacDonald 
had been your mother. Would you have called her by that name? 
Would you have permitted the other boys to have said the same ?" The 



42 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

dominie had pierced an unprotected part of the "bully's" armor, as he 
exclaimed with indignation in his eye — "I wadna hae stood it, sir!" 
And the clenched fist of the lad assured the master that he spoke the 
truth. Jamie was seeing things in a different light. The master was 
reaching the boy's heart, if by an unbeaten pathway. 

"So ! And what else did you say, Jamie?" he asked with an encourag- 
ing mood. 

"We spiered' at her what was the price o' a bawbee's worth o' shoe 
strings ; what she had in her meal pock besides meal. You see, sir, she 
had just come oot o' the Bull Head public-house." 

By this time the old schoolmaster had walked towards one of the 
windows and was looking out as if seeing something invisible. Jamie 
could not understand it at all. The proceedings were worse to him than 
the biggest licking he had ever received. Little wonder he longed for 
his liberty. Coming back and sitting down beside the lad once more, the 
dominie said: "Yes, Jamie, go on. What else did you say?" 

"We cried oot : 

'Drunken Mag lives alane, 
Ayont the cauld Girdle Stane, 
The drunken Hag will never marry, 
Because she jilted poor Harry.' " 

Had this effusion been directed towards another subject or object the 
old master might have seen some humor in this juvenile doggerel. As it 
was, the old man only looked sad, while Jamie felt burdened with a load 
of shame. He could not get out of his mind the master's question — 
'Suppose Margaret McDonald was your mother?" Besides, he had never 
before heard anyone call the unfortunate woman "Margaret," while her 
last name had been unknown to him until that hour. 

"And so you said something to her about 'marriage', did you not? 
And what did she say in reply, Jamie?" 

"She said, sir, that 'while some folk ca' her daft ; she wasna sae daft 
as tae marry.' Then she ran after us, staggering like, and chased us tae 
the school." 

"And that was your 'fun,' Jamie?" 
"I'll never dae it again, sir," the lad cried, as the tears coursed down 
his face. He was thinking about his mother. 

The dominie arose once more and walked toward his desk. Unlock- 
ing it, he took from it the formidable leather tawse. Jamie knew his time 
had come once more. He didn't care. He felt he deserved all that was 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



43 



coming to him, and was fully prepared for the worst that might happen. 
"Stand up, Jamie !" Instantly the boy was upon his feet. Intuitively 




Courtesy 
/Sabbath Ilea ding 



'Lick me as sair as ye want to." 



he held out his hand for the deserved and expected punishment. But 
Jamie's surprise merely deepened, for there was neither rage in the 
master's speech nor fire in his eye. 



44 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Jamie," the dominie said at last, "you see what I have in my hand?" 

"Yes, sir," he replied, without a tremor now. The "bully" had seen 
the strap often and felt it, too. The tawse and Jamie were near related. 

"You can have your choice, Soutar — either the biggest thrashing 
I've ever given you, or off to the hovel beyond the Girdle Stone and tell 
Margaret how sorry you are for your day's work, promising her never 
to do it again — which, Soutar?" 

"Baith, sir," replied the lad, with bowed head. 

"What do you mean by 'both?' " 

"Just that, sir. Lick me as sair as ye want to. I'll gang toe the 
Girdle Stane, tae ! Ye are richt, Maister Menzies; what if Mag had 
been my ain mither?" 

The master had won a double victory ; not only was he much greater 
than he who takes a city, in that he had ruled his own spirit, but he 
had won the lad's heart. There were two, instead of one, engaged from 
that hour in the work of transforming a poor outcast from society. 

"Go, Jamie, and heaven help you," were the parting words of the 
old schoolmaster. 

It was a long and lonely walk for the lad. Far past his own home 
he went. Careless now of rabbits bounding across the path, or of birds 
flying from their nest, because of his near approach. Even the song of 
the lark and the hum of insects were as nothing to him. "What if Mag 
had been his own mither?" 

Having passed the Girdle Stone — a barren rock seen for quite a dis- 
tance, and known by that name to all in the Scottish village — Jamie 
Soutar drew near to the tumble-down cottage known as "hame" to 
drunken Mag — the only name she was known by to all save two persons 
now. With a new-born courage the lad approached the door that stood 
ajar. He knocked, at first gently, but with no response. Then with a 
much louder sound, until he heard the voice not unknown to him. "Wha's 
there?" she said. 

"It's me," responded Jamie bravely. 

"An' wha are ye?" 

"Jamie Soutar wants tae speak tae ye." And then he heard a noise 
that made him breathless for a second. Sure enough, Mag bounded 
towards the door like a wild tigress. She had recognized the voice of 
an old tormentor. The time of her vengeance had come. Grabbing him 
by the hair she fairly shrieked with glee. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 45 

"I've got ye noo, Jamie Soutar. Certa, but ye'll get mair than is 
comin' tae ye !" And Jamie saw stars in the day-time. His purishmenf 
was most severe. Panting hard, she tried to make of the lad what the 
had threatened to do — a "dish-cloot" — out of him. When she had 
finished, because of a lack of strength, Jamie found an opportunity to 
say "Margaret MacDonald." It proved the "Open Sesame" to her mind 
and called for a truce. There was only another who knew her full name 
in all the region round about. How did the boy know? 

"Tell me quick, ye scoundrel, hoo ye ken my name, or I'll lick 
ye mair !" 

"The dominie !" was all he said. Mag sobered down at once. There 
was a charm to her about the name that made her still as the leaves of 
the trees outside. She was another woman. 

"Come inside," she said. But Jamie was unable to get up. The 
thrashing had been too much for him ; besides, the blood that trickled 
from his nose made him a sorry object to look upon. 

The faint spark of womanly feeling had been now tanned into a 
small flame of pity, as she helped Jamie to get on his feet, for she had 
done her work of vengeance well. 

Come inside, laddie. I'll wash your face for ye. I'll 'mask' a cuppie 
o' tea for ye and ye'll sune be a' right." 

When her mad work had been undone by these tender and wel- 
come ministries, Mag said, "Hoo did the dominie tell ye my name?" 
And it was given to the erstwhile "bully" to relate his experiences with 
the schoolmaster that afternoon. But her exclamation and interjections 
about her "Johnnie" of the long ago were as mysterious to the boy 
as the depths of the sea. 

"Margaret MacDonald," said Soutar, as he rose to go, having made 
a free and glad confession of his many sins against her, "the first bairn 
wha calls ye names in my hearing again gets thrashed, if I hae tae gang 
tae jail for it. But dinna gang tae the 'Bull's Head' ony mair, Margaret ; 
keep yer bawbees tae yersel'." 

That night was quiet and still ; the stars peeped out one by one, no 
unwelcome moon shed a radiance over the path she knew so well that 
led to the dominie's lodgings. For once the "Bull's Head" public-house 
seemed to have no attraction for her. She drew near with stealthy step 
and slow, until she took up her position by the window of the dominie's 
room, which had been left open at the foot. She could see him now, 



46 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

although he was not aware of her presence. His head was covered 
with his hands as his elbows rested on the table. At length he fell on 
his knees and spoke in familiar tones to his Unseen Friend. 

"O Lord," he said, with power and passion, "convert her from the 
error of her ways before it be too late. Polish her, as a bright jewel 
for the king's crown. Amen." 

As he rose from his knees he was conscious of a tapping at the 
window pane outside. Walking towards the window, still open, he 
looked out and said, "Who's there?" "John, come oot!" was all he 
heard, but it was enough. 

Outside they met and talked. The conversation was not long but 
effectual. 

"John," she said, "I heard ye pray. So did God. I've heard ye 
often, though ye didna ken it. Mony a nicht I've crept up here and 
heard ye pray for me, and ye hae kept me frae suiside. John, ye hae 
kept me oot o' hell." 

"Margaret, I have not forgotten the time when ye were a bonnie 
Highland lassie, as pure as the lily in the dell. We will not speak about 
the dark past and what might have been. Margaret, a Greater says: 
'Sin no more.' I'm not long for this world. If you mean it, there is 
something in the bank for you when I am dead and gone. And, Mar- 
garet, if you can spare it, help Jamie Soutar. He is a likely lad, and 
I would like to see him through Edinburg University. Just another 
word, Margaret, keep a flower in Blossom at my headstone. Good-bye, 
Margaret." 

She was as good as her word in after days. The marks of sin 
were hard to remove from her wrinkled face, but she lived a "white" 
life, in better surroundings ; neither did she forget Jamie Soutar, al- 
though he could never understand it all perfectly. By the prayers of 
Dominie Menzies, the kindly feelings of Jamie Soutar, plus the grace 
of God, Margaret MacDonald was transformed by the renewing of her 
mind and heart. — Rev. Wm. T. Dorward in Scottish American. 

AN ANGEL IN A SALOON. 

One afternoon in the month of June, , a lady in deep mourning. 

and followed by a child, entered one of the fashionable saloons in the 
city of N . The writer happened to be passing at the time, and, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 47 

impelled by curiosity, followed her in to see what would ensue. Stepping 
up to the bar and addressing the proprietor, who happened to be present, 
she said: 

"Sir, can you assist me ? I have no home, no friends, and am unable 
to work." 

He glanced at her, and then at the child, with a mingled look of 
curiosity and pity. Evidently he was somewhat surprised to see a 
woman in such a place begging, but, without asking any questions, gave 
her some change; then turning to those present, he said: 

"Gentlemen, here is a lady in distress. Can't some of you assist her 
a little?" They all cheerfully acceded to this request, and soon a purse 
of two dollars was raised and put in her hand. 

"Madam," said the gentleman who gave her the money, "why do 
you come to a saloon? It isn't a very proper place for a lady, and why 
are you driven to such a step?" 

"Sir, I know it isn't a proper place for me to be in, and you ask why 
I am driven to such a step. I will tell you in one short word," pointing 
to a bottle behind the door labeled "Whiskey," "that is what has driven 
me to this — Whiskey. I was once happy and surrounded by all the 
luxuries that wealth could procure, with a fond and indulgent husband. 
But in an evil hour he was tempted, and not possessing the will to resist 
that temptation, fell, and in one short year my dream of happiness was 
over, my home forever broken and desolated, and the kind husband and 
the wealth some called mine, lost, lost, never to return; and all by the 
accursed wine-cup. 

"You see before you only a wreck of my former self, homeless and 
friendless, with nothing left me in this world but this little child." And 
weeping bitterly, she affectionately caressed the golden curls that shaded 
a face of exquisite loveliness. Regaining her composure, and turning 
to the proprietor, she continued: 

"Sir, the reason I occasionally enter a place like this, is to implore 
those who deal in the deadly poison to desist, to stop a business that 
spreads desolation, ruin, poverty and starvation. Think one moment 
of your own loved ones, and then imagine them in the situation I am in. 
I appeal to your better nature, I appeal to your heart, for I know you 
possess a kind one, to retire from a business so ruinous to your patrons. 

"Did you know that the money you receive across this bar is the 
same as taking the bread from out of the mouths of the famished wives 



48 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and children of your customers? That it strips the clothes from their 
backs, deprives them of all the comforts of life, and throws unhappiness, 
misery, crime, and desolation into their once happy homes? Oh! sir, I 
implore, beseech, and pray you to retire from a business you blush to own 
you are engaged in before your fellow-men, and enter one that will not 
only be profitable to yourself, but to your fellow-creatures also. You 
will excuse me if I have spoken too plainly, but I could not help it when 
I thought of the misery and unhappiness it has caused me." 

"Madam, I am not offended/' he answered in a voice tremulous with 
emotion, "but thank you from my heart for what you have said." 

"Mamma," said the child — who in the meantime had been spoken 
to by some of the gentlemen present — taking hold of her mother's 
hand, "these gentlemen wish me to sing 'Little Bessie' for them. Shall 
I do so?" 

"Yes, darling, if they wish you to." 

They all joined in the request, and> placing her in a chair, she sang 
in a sweet, childish voice the following beautiful song: 

Out in the gloomy night sadly I roam, 
I have no mother dear, no pleasant home; 
No one cares for me, no one would cry, 
Even if poor little Bessie would die. 
Weary and tired, I've been wandering all day, 
Asking for work, but I'm too small, they say; 
On the damp ground I must lay my head, 
Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead! 

We were so happy till father drank rum, 
Then all our sorrow and trouble begun; 
Mother grew pale and wept every day, 
Baby and I were too hungry to play; 
Slowly they faded, till one summer night 
Found their dead faces all silent and white; 
Then with big tears slowly dropping, I said, 
Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead! 

Oh! if the temperance men would only find 

Poor wretched father, and talk very kind; 

If they would stop him from drinking, why then, 

I should be so very happy again! 

Is it too late, temperance men? Please try, 

Or poor little Bessie must soon starve and die, 

All the day long I've been begging for bread, 

Father's a drunkard, and mother is dead! 

The games of billiards were left unfinished, the cards were thrown 
eside upon the counter ; all had pressed near, some with curiosity, some 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 49 

with sadness, and some with pity beaming from their eyes, entranced with 
the musical voice and beauty of the child, who seemed to be better fitted 
to be with angels above than in such a place. 

The scene I shall never forget to my dying day, and the sweet 
cadence of her musical voice still rings in my ears, and every word of 
the song, as it dropped from her lips, sank deep in the hearts of all those 
around her. 

With her golden hair falling carelessly around her little shoulders, 
her face of almost ethereal beauty, looking so trustingly and confidingly 
upon the men around', her beautiful blue eyes illuminated with a light 
that seemed not of earth, she formed a picture of purity and innocence 
worthy the genius of a poet or painter. 

At the close of the song many were weeping; men who had not shed 
a tear for years' now wept like children. One young man who had 
resisted with scorn the pleadings of a loving mother and the entreaties 
of friends to strive to lead a better life, to desist from a course that was 
wasting his fortune and ruining his health, now approached the child, 
and taking both her hands in his, while tears streamed down his pale 
cheeks, exclaimed with deep emotion : 

"God bless you, my little angel ! You have saved me from ruin and 
disgrace, from poverty and a drunkard's grave. If there ever were angels 
on earth, you are one. God bless you. God bless you!" And putting 
a bill in the hand of the mother, said, "Please accept this trifle as a token 
of my regard and esteem, for your little girl has done me a kindness 
no wealth can ever repay. And remember, whenever you are in want, 
you will find in me a true friend," at the same time giving her his name 
and address. 

Taking her child by the hand, she turned to go, but, pausing at 
the door, said: 

"God bless you, gentlemen ! Accept the heartfelt thanks of a poor, 
friendless woman for the kindness and courtesy you have shown her." 
Before any could reply, she was gone. 

A silence of several minutes ensued, which was at last broken by the 
proprietor, who exclaimed : 

"Gentlemen, that lady is right, and I have sold my last glass of 
whiskey; if any of you want more, you will have to go elsewhere." 

"And I have drunk my last glass of whiskey," said a young man 
who had long been given up as utterly beyond the reach of those who 



50 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

had deep interest in his welfare, thinking that he had sank too low to 
reform. "There is a temperance organization in this city, and at the 
next meeting I shall send up my name to be admitted. Who will go 
with me?" 

"I — I — I — I — I, and I !" several exclaimed in a chorus, and fifteen 
names were added to his. 

True to his word, the owner of the saloon where this strange scene 
was enacted • disposed of his entire stock the next day, and is now 
engaged in an honorable business. 

Would to heaven that lady with her little one could have gone into 
every hamlet, town and city throughout our country, and met with like 
results. — A True Incident in Temperance Truths. 

CAPTAIN NED AND THE DRAGON. 

"And the dragon ravaged the land until none were safe," read Aunt 
Kate to Captain Ned, as he lay snuggled comfortably under blankets on 
the couch, sick with a cold. "It snatched strong men as they went to 
their work. Then came a band of brave knights, the flower of the 
nation, and guarded all the highways where the men must pass." 

"O my," interrupted Ned with a sigh, "It must have been splendid 
living in those days — with dragons and things to fight." 

"And you really don't think, Ned Baxter, that the dragons are ill 
dead?" asked a voice from the dormer window, as the curtains parted 
and showed the face of Uncle Rob, just home from college. "Don't you 
believe it; the woods are full of them. I know a frightful one in this 
very neighborhood." 

Ned turned toward his uncle a face like unto an animated question 
mark. 

"Yes, sir, in this very neighborhood," continued Uncle Rob. "Every 
year it snatches away strong men from their families, and crushes the 
life out of them, or cripples them or takes away their senses. St. George's 
dragon isn't in it with this one. There is need of whole armies of brave 
knights to fight it." 

Ned's eyes were big with wonder. 

"Look quick. There goes one of the dragon's victims down the 
street this minute," said Uncle Robert. 

Ned threw the blankets quite off and sat bolt upright to look out 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 51 

of the window back of the couch. But all he saw was Jim Wilkins 
staggering home. 

"O, Uncle Rob, then you don't mean a real dragon, but something 
like the saloon — something that makes men drink whisky and things?" 
he asked. 

"Exactly; but it's a much more real dragon than the one in the 
story book." 

"But what could soldiers — or knights — do with that kind of a 
dragon?" asked Ned curiously. 

"H'm," mused Uncle Rob thoughtfully, "Thinking of the Light 
Brigade, Cap'n?" 

Ned blushed. A number of Ned's friends and companions had 
banded themselves together under the name of "The Light Brigade," 
and every afternoon after school faithfully drilled in the yard back of 
Ned's house. 

Uncle Rob thought a minute before he answered his nephew. Then 
he said seriously: "Ned, I believe there is a way that your Light 
Brigade could do real service in saving men from this dragon." After 
that they had a long talk about it, which gave Captain Ned much to 
think about. 

One Saturday a week or more after the talk, Ned overheard Mrs. 
O'Flaherty, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, telling his mother, "Yes, 
ma'am, Mike, he's thrying to do better; but it's awful weak he is, and 
he's a lot worse since he came back from the war in Cuby. Still he'd 
keep straight, Mike would, if 'twasn't for that awful trip past Whisky 
Row every Saturday night, when he's jest got his pay from the factory. 
I'm just goin' to pray every blissid minute this day, ma'am, that some- 
thing'll get him past that place to-night." 

"That's a dragon case, sure," thought Ned. 

That night when the factory whistle blew for closing, the Light 
Brigade, with Captain Ned at its head, keeping time to the rat-a-tat-tat 
of Ben Brown's drum, and the martial airs that Ned Jenkins played on 
his small fife, marched up to the entrance of the factory and halted. 
Captain Ned's eyes searched for the sandy hair of Mrs. O'Flaherty's 
Mike. When he found him, he approached with a real soldierly salute: 
"Mr. Michael O'Flaherty, I believe. I came to see if you'd give us boys 
a bit of advice about military tactics, knowing you were in the Spanish- 
American war. If we could just march along beside you on your way 



52 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



home, while you tell us, so as not to take your time, we'd be awful 
grateful." 

Mike's ruddy face flushed with pleasure, and he willingly promised. 
Thus it happened that the regular Saturday night customer of the 
saloons forgot to stop and take the fateful "first" drink. It was easy 
for Captain Ned to suggest that the experiment be repeated, and thus 
it became the regular thing for the little company to escort veteran 




.- -i..- : ***** <— ' < J ^~'' 

Courtesy Union Signal "' * ' ^ 

The March of the Light Brigade. 

O'Flaherty home each Saturday night. Under Uncle Rob's wise advice, 
other ways of cheating the dragon of victims was discovered, as well, 
but that is another story. 

One afternoon Ned's Aunt Kate interrupted the drill to present the 
boys with a beautiful banner upon which appeared the prostrate figure 
of a dragon, by the side of which stood a knight, his foot upon the 
creature's neck. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 53 

"Say, boys," said Captain Ned, "I don't think our mothers would 
ever want us to fight on a real battle field, but let's just forever keep 
on fighting the old dragon." — Julia F. Deane in Union Signal. 

LITTLE JIM. 

The day was warm as Simon Tanner slouched on the shady side of 
the street on his way to the public house to have a "half-pint" for the 
fourth time that morning, and the hand of the church clock had not yet 
recorded the hour of eleven. In appearance Simon was a compound of 
the broken-down petty tradesman, a carpenter long out of employment, 
and a man who would not work at all ; but, as a matter of fact, he was 
a jobbing carpenter, who worked a little when he was obliged, and idled 
whenever he felt he could do without the fear of being deprived of the 
drink that was dearer to his heart than anything else on earth. 

He had a home and a wife and children, all in sad harmony with a 
drunkard's life — the one bare of furniture, and the other half starved, 
dejected and utterly miserable. 

"I want a pint of beer, Mr. Bouncer, and I'll pay you this afternoon, 
if you don't mind," said Simon to the publican. 

"No go," said Mr. Bouncer, drawing a glass for himself and drinking 
before the very eyes of the thirsty Simon, thereby inflicting upon him 
unnecessary pain. "You can't have the beer, because you won't pay. 
And besides, better watch you ain't put on this 'ere black list." 

Hoping that somebody of a more amiable turn of mind than the 
landlord might come in and "stand him a drink," Simon ruefully took a 
seat on a tub at the back of the bar, and sought, with indifferent success, 
to ward off his thirst by reading the police reports. 

The bar was empty at that time, but in a few minutes others came 
in — three men in the holland suits worn by painters and house decorators. 
Simon was deep in a case of wife-beating arising from drink — in which 
he had a sort of sympathetic feeling, having occasionally given a few 
blows to Mrs. Tanner instead of bread when she asked for it — when a 
roar of laughter from the men caused him to look ud to find what had 
given rise to the merriment. 

It was a little child, a boy with a wan face that spoke volumes, 
standing just within the door. The few rags he had upon his poor, 
little, pinched frame were not worthy of the name of clothes, and his 



54 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

little feet were thrust into a pair of battered, dingy boots big enough 
for a man. It was the boots the painters were laughing at, and at first 
sight the appearance of the child was undoubtedly ludicrous. 

But their laughter soon ceased. The boots might be absurd, but 
the little limbs almost lost in the huge proportions of the battered 
coverings to his feet were touching to look upon, and when the men 
lifted their eyes to the sad face they became silent. The child was mute 
too. He simply stood there with his eyes asking for bread. 

The man nearest to him, a big, black-whiskered fellow, with a kind 
face, broke the silence. "Halloo, little Jack," he said; "what do you 
want?" 

"My name isn't Jack, it's Jim," replied the child; "and I, want a bit 
of bread." 

"Poor little fellow !" said the man. "Here, master, give us a biscuit 
for the boy. What a shame for a man to send his child about in his 
old boots !" 

"Not old boots!" said the boy, with a shrewd look — "father's best 
Sunday boots." 

This drew out another roar of laughter, and one of the men, hoisting 
the child up, cried out, "Look, mates ! here's a pair of best Sunday boots 
for you. What a nice, respectable father he must be if the rest of his 
clothes are only like them !" and they all laughed again. 

"Father never gives me anything," said Jim, quickly, " 'cept knock 
'bout my head. Stones in the hard road cut my feet, so I put his 
boots on." 

"Well, little chap," said the man who had Jim in his arms, putting 
him upon his feet, "I see you've got hard lines of it. Go home and tell 
your father to knock off his drink for a week, and get you a proper 
pair of boots." 

The child laughed now in his turn, but he did not explain why he did 
so, nor did anybody ask him why. They understood that laugh, for it 
was without merriment, and they knew as well as the child, how 
improbable it was that a man given to drink would listen to any appeal 
but that of his awful craving. Little Jim, with the remains of one 
biscuit in hand and the other hugged to his breast, went out of the 
public house, with his big boots slouching and swinging about his tender 
little feet, and the men went back to their beer. 

And who is this that has listened with bitter shame to all that 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



55 



passed, cowering behind the newspaper to hide his burning cheeks? 
Simon Tanner, the idle, dissolute drunkard, the father of little Jim. 




Courtesy 
Sabbath Reading 

"My name isn't Jack, 

it's Jim" 



Yes, it was his own child who, unconscious of the full depth of the 
iniquity of the story he was telling, had laid bare his shame to strangers. 
The child, even with closed lips, was a silent witness against him; his 
tongue had given such confirmation that none could doubt. Even Mr. 
Bouncer, who was, of course, a sturdy defender of the theory of strong 



56 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

drinks being beneficial, was compelled to admit that in this case it 
would be better if the father, whoever he was, took a little less. 

"All I can say is," said the man who had paid for the first biscuit, 
"that I would not stand in that man's shoes for a mint of money." 

"And how do you know you won't one day?" cried Simon Tanner, 
springing to his feet and glaring at him with sudden fury. "Do you 
think I was always a drunkard ? I was once as good a man as you, if not 
better, and it's the drink that's brought me down." 

"So you are the father of that boy," said the man — "a nice fellow 
you must be." 

"Yes, I am," replied Simon; "and don't you go calling me hard 
names, for your turn may come, and the turn of all of you, and if the 
drink does get hold of you, then you will understand why that poor little 
chap was driven to do what he did. That landlord there knows me, and 
he knows I spend every penny I earn in this house ; and yet this morning 
when I wanted him to trust me one pint, he said 'No.' He even jeered 
at me and warned me not to get put on the black list. My word, I'll 
take his advice in a way he won't like." 

"You always had beer for your money," Mr. Bouncer interrupted, 
"and there's no reason why I should give it to you for nothing." 

"I suppose not," replied Simon; "you've got the law and prejudice 
on your side, and there's everything against me ; but I'm not going to be 
beaten. My child has put a new spirit into me to-day, and I'll tell you 
what I'm going to do, and that is, by God's help, I'll never touch drink 
again. Do you hear? Never touch it again! And when I'm a decent 
man I'll come again here, and stand outside and tell the people my story." 

"If you come here and make a disturbance," said Mr. Bouncer, 
loftily, "I'll have you locked up." 

"I shan't make any disturbance," returned Simon, as he moved 
towards the door; "there'll be no need to do that. The very look of 
drunken Simon, as I'm called, in good clothes will be enough to set 
people thinking, and if any of them choose to ask me a question, I shall 
be at liberty to answer it, I suppose." 

Strong in his resolve, Simon Tanner turned his back upon "The 
Sorcerer," leaving behind him in the bar a little knot of perturbed, 
astonished men. 

Only his wife was at home in their miserable room, busy with some 
rough sewing she obtained from a shop in the town, by means of which 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 57 

she got the children the little food that fell to their lot, and she started 
up, hearing the noise he made, fearing from his haste he was coming 
home, as he often did, in a violent temper. She was thankful all the 
children were out playing about the street with other little sufferers. 
She was always anxious to spare them the misery of seeing their father 
at his worst. 

But he was changed, and the change was startling. He rushed at 
her, it is true ; but instead of the blow and the curse, he took her in his 
arms, and, holding her tightly, sobbed like a child. "Pray God to help 
us, Polly," he said; "I'm going to try to be a better man." She heard 
him, and fell a-sobbing too. 

Simon had been kind to her once. When first they married he 
promised well, and was gentle to her; but before their first child was 
born he had become a follower of Mr. Bouncer. From that time there 
was no peace or happiness ; naught but quarreling, want and rapid ruin. 
None of the children had hitherto seen their father at his best. They had 
no notion he ever was, or could be, anything but what he had been to 
them since they were born. There were four of them, and the eldest, a 
girl, was just nine years of age. Coming in at this moment, she did 
not know whether to scream or be glad when her father caught her in 
his arms and kissed her. 

While Simon Tanner was holding his child to his heart, the two 
next, a boy and a girl, came in, and as soon as they could fairly com- 
prehend what had passed, lent their gladness to the general joy. 

The last to arrive was little Jim, who, with the cunning born of the 
street life he led, left the shoes he had borrowed for awhile on the land- 
ing outside. He had not seen his father at the public house because the 
paper hid him from view, and he had no suspicion of his little paccadillo 
having been discovered, or of the good it had effected. He was greatly 
astonished and frightened at first when his father raised him in his arms, 
and with a glad smile asked him for his shoes. 

A few hours before and he might have denied having seen them, for 
the dread of being cruelly treated will often lead a child to lie ; but the 
smile disarmed him, and he told where they were. Simon Tanner went 
out and fetched them, and bade his wife put them away. 

"We will keep these," he said, "and I trust in God to lead me aright, 
so that when Jim is a man he may be thankful for the day he put 
them on." 



58 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

A few minutes afterwards Simon was out seeking work, and by night 
he had found a little to do. On his return home he found Robert Brown, 
the painter who gave Jim the biscuit, waiting to see him. 

"I thought I would find you out and have a talk with you," he said, 
"for it is a pity such good resolutions as you and I made today should 
ever grow cold. The lesson I had — and you taught it, though you didn't 
think so — I never can forget. I have a wife and children, too, and I 
don't think I need say more than that I shuddered as I thought of what 
drink might bring to them. I am going to sign the pledge. Will you 
come with me?" 

A ready affirmation was given, and with Simon Tanner carrying 
little Jim in his arms, as proud of him as if he had been a prince of royal 
blood, they went to a well-known temperance worker in the district and 
put down their names. On their way home Robert Brown unburdened 
his mind of something he had had upon it all day. 

"Here's a boot-shop," he said, pulling up, "and I want you to let me 
buy Jim a pair that will fit him. It's a poor little gift for what he has 
done for me this day." 

It was a generous offer not to be refused on any account, and they 
went into the shop, where little Jim, in a dream of delight — he could 
hardly believe it was real — was fitted up with a pair of sound boots, 
with sufficient ornament about them to please his childish fancy, and 
strong enough to stand the tests of ordinary wear. 

They did not cost much ; but no king on gaining additional territory 
ever knew the unqualified delight the little fellow felt that night as he 
strutted from the shop in his new possessions. 

Of all that followed it would require a little book to tell. Little by 
little Simon Tanner made his home full of simple delights and pure joy, 
such as no votaries of drink could ever know, let them say what they 
will ; and if he did not actually carry out his threat to stand against the 
door of "The Sorcerer," a living proof of the benefits of temperance, to 
teach the men who squandered their earnings there, the change in his life 
was still sufficiently well known to do some good and excite the unswerv- 
ing but unavailing animosity of Mr. Bouncer. 

The children are growing up, little Jim among them, and the day is 
not far distant when the old shoes will be a better fit than they were in 
his infant days, and should he desire to put them on once more, they are 
still preserved and at his service. He will never wear them again, but 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 59 

whatever he may think of the shoes of the past, he will never be ashamed 
to put on those his father wears at the present time. God's guidance is 
daily prayed for in Simon's family, and the blessing which "maketh rich" 
rests on his happy home. — Lincoln Magazine. 

JANIE ELLIOTT'S CHRISTMAS. 

Janie Elliott looked down at her shabby shoes with eyes which were 
slowly filling with tears. How could she go to school with such things 
upon her feet? Only yesterday Bertha Crane had looked scornfully at 
her, and she had heard her whisper to one of the girls, "Before Fd wear 
such looking shoes as that — " 

Janie had her natural, girlish pride, and shoes were a very essential 
part of it. It was all so new, too, and unexpected poverty is almost 
harder to bear than where one has always been accustomed to it and 
knows nothing else. Mrs. Elliott came in as Janie stood looking, and 
her arm stole about the child's waist as she drew her close to her heart. 
"Little Janie. Patient litle Janie," she said sadly. 

"No, mother, I'm not patient. I'm not patient at all," sobbed the 
child, almost fiercely. "Why is it that father doesn't take care of us as 
he used to do? Why do we not have food and clothes as other people 
have ?" 

The mother sighed heavily. She dreaded to add to Janie's burdens 
the shame of knowing that her father was fast becoming a confirmed 
drunkard. Sickness had always been his excuse when he came into the 
presence of his children with staggering steps and an aching head, and 
Mrs. Elliott had borne in silence, and kept back the truth for the sake 
of the children, of whom Janie was the oldest. "O Janie, don't you 
know? Cannot you guess?" 

"Why, no, mother. The girls looked at me so queerly the other 
day as they were talking about Retta Paulsen, the saloonkeeper's 
daughter, who is in our room at school. She wears such lovely clothes." 

"Yes, darling, it is our poverty, and that of many others like us, 
that supplies them," cried the mother, the sharp pain in her heart 
wrestling the truth from her almost before she realized it. "If father 
had not learned the way to Paulsen's saloon we should have all we' 
need as well as they." 

"O mother!" cried Janie in a heart-broken voice, as she turned and 



60 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

threw her arms around her mother's neck, and together they sobbed out 
their shame and grief with broken words of loving comfort for each other. 

"It began since father went to work in the new factory, for when 
Paulsen built his saloon so near, it was like a trap always ready to catch 
the hundreds of men that had to pass it to get to their homes. For 
months father kept away from it; we must give him credit for that. 
Then they caught him with the bait of the pay roll." 

"The pay roll?" echoed Janie in bewilderment. 

"Yes; the men are paid off Saturday night, and the company pays 
in cheques instead of cash, and of course the men want their money. 

"The banks are closed at that hour, but Paulsen is ready. He 
borrows thousands of dollars for the occasion, and stands at the door, 
smiling and persuasive. 'Walk right in, boys, and get your cheques 
cashed/ and in they go. Of course they are grateful for the accommo- 
dation, and buy a glass by way of courtesy. Of course, too, they under- 
stand that Paulsen expects that every man will not only 'take something' 
himself but treat his friends, and before they realize it a big slice of 
their week's wages is left in the saloon till. 

"Paulsen's 'courtesy' costs him nothing but a day's interest on his 
borrowed money, and he fills his pockets with the hard-earned money 
of the men." 

"O mother — and father goes there! That is why he has so little 
to bring home when he earns so much." 

The mother sighed again. "He is not even earning so much, dear. 
The drink makes his once steady hand trembling and uncertain, and he 
has already been threatened with discharge. He has gone down so 
fast, yet he will not own it, and is so angry when I venture to 
speak of it." 

"O mother, mother; what can we do?" sobbed Janie, her young 
heart filled with terror and distress. 

"We can only pray, Janie. With God all things are possible." 

They were both Christians, the sorrowing mother and her daughter, 
and prayer was not an untried source of relief, though faith was nearly 
dead in the heart of the discouraged mother who had known of the evil 
so long, and had prayed against it so earnestly. It came like a shock to 
Janie, and explained many things which had wounded her sensitive 
heart. The pitying glances of some of her school friends, the sneers 
of others, she had been so slow to understand, and it all came home to 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 61 

her with a rush that she was that object of pity, a drunkard's daughter. 

Poor Carrie Lane, with her hollow cheeks and ragged gown, had 
been the object of her sincere compassion when she came to school with 
tearful eyes and the marks of Joe Lane's heavy hand upon her, and now 
Janie realized that she herself was the object of the same compassion 
from others. The knowledge made her so sick at heart that she threw 
herself upon her little bed in an agony of grief, feeling that she could 
never go to school again and face her disgrace. 

A few weeks later there was a great convention gathering in the 
city. Women were pouring out of the incoming trains, with white 
ribbons pinned conspicuously upon their breasts, and a great banner 
with the words, "Welcome W. C. T. U." upon it, was hung across 
the street, from the convention hall to the hotel opposite where the 
leaders had their headquarters. 

The saloonkeepers and the brewers of the city would gladly have 
done violence to that banner had they dared, for it meant enlightenment, 
liberty from the slavery of drink, and death to the traffic. 

James Elliott halted on his way as he passed the hall one evening. 
He was more nearly sober than he had been for weeks, and an indefinable 
impulse led him to go in. His mother had belonged to the W. C. T. U. 
years ago, and he had been interested in the work when as a young man 
he had held himself above temptation. A strange desire to hear what 
was being said within the building seized upon him, that wireless 
telegraphy between himself and God which Janie's prayers and her 
mother's had set in motion. 

James Elliott was not so indifferent to his own condition as his 
wife supposed, and his anger was only a form of expression which his 
conscience used to silence her. He loved his children and his home 
still, clouded and benumbed as the love was by liquor, and in his sober 
moments conscience upbraided him far more 'sharply than his wife 
had ever done. 

There was an eloquent speaker on the platform as he went in, and 
she was reviewing the relation of the workingman to the liquor question. 
She showed so clearly that, more than any other class, the laboring 
man needs all his faculties, all his earnings, in his struggle for a living 
in these high-pressure, competitive times. 

Argument piled upon argument, and persuasion followed, until Mr. 
Elliott felt the tears of conviction and earnest resolve trickling down 



62 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

his cheeks. "I will be a man," he said to himself. "God helping me, 
I will no longer defraud my wife and children. I have been a blind, 
obstinate fool to allow such a man as Paulsen to trick me out of my 
manhood with a glass of liquor." 

Mrs. Elliott looked up in surprise when her husband came in that 
night. It was so late that she had expected him to come in more 
intoxicated than usual, but his step was firm and his figure erect, 
though he said nothing. Janie's shoes were lying by a chair, for her 
mother had been trying to make them more presentable for the morrow, 
and he picked them up and looked them over with an expression on his 
face which she could not fathom. 

It was the beginning of a new life for James Elliott. He was a 
man of more than average intelligence, and well qualified to become a 
leader among his fellow workmen, and it was not long before a com- 
mittee of three waited upon the president of the works with a request. 

"If you could realize for a moment what it means to us fellows, 
I am sure you would gladly make the change," said Mr. Elliott earnestly. 
"The pay cheque system throws us into the very arms of the saloon, and 
I believe it is responsible for a great share of the drinking habits among 
the men." 

Mr. Price heard the words with earnest attention. "I believe you 
are right, Elliott, though I had never before looked at the matter in 
that light. I will investigate, and if I find things as you represent 
them, I will see what can be done to remedy the evil." 

He did investigate. Unnoticed by Paulsen or the men, he stood 
where he could hear the oily persuasions of the saloonkeeper to "have 
something more," until the week's pay was seriously cut into. 

Many of the men had bills against them which ran over from week 
to week, while Paulsen generously allowed them a little to live on. 
It made the employer .sick at heart to see how completely many who 
should have been saving for wife and children at home were in the 
toils of the wily dealer in drunkenness and poverty — his own sleek, 
well-fed figure a strong contrast to the most constant of his customers. 

The manufacturer went to a bank afterward, and saw Paulsen come 
in with a great roll of cheques. "Business is brisk," he remarked with 
laughing satisfaction as he made a large deposit. 

"Tell me, Mr. Reeves," said the factory owner to the cashier, a 
friend of his, as Paulsen went out, "is this transaction an exceptional 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 63 

one? We are thinking of making a change and beginning cash payment 
instead of by cheques." 

"It would be a great blessing to the men if all employers would 
do the same," replied the cashier, guardedly. "You would be astonished, 
Mr. Price, to see the workingmen's cheques which pour into every bank 
in this city from the saloons. I would never have believed it if I had 
not come in actual contact with it." 

"And every one represents at least one glass of beer, or somthing 
stronger," mused Mr. Price. 

He was a sturdy, upright man to whom conviction meant con- 
version and reform, and the change was made very soon, and in an 
earnest and convincing speech he urged his employees to habits of 
sobriety and temperance. 

"You all know what the saloon leads to, men ; not one among you 
needs to be convinced of the evils of the drink habit," he said earnestly, 
and a new bond was there formed between Capital and Labor which 
strengthened as time went on. 

In one home wonderful changes were being wrought. Mr. Elliott 
was a skilled workman when he was himself, and he soon regained his 
skill when the drink habit loosed its hold of him. "We must make 
such a Christmas for the children as they have never had before," he 
said to his wife as he laid his week's pay in her lap. "Be extravagant 
for once, Mary, and a little atonement for what I have made them and 
you suffer." 

"The very best Christmas gift they can have is a sober father who 
loves them," replied Mrs. Elliott with a happy smile. 

"That may be, but I should not make a very attractive top on the 
Christmas tree, and I want it filled with all the pretty things you 
can find." 

"Janie must have the best pair of shoes that money can buy, James," 
said his wife. "It would have wrung your heart to see how she suf- 
fered in wearing the old ones as long as she did." 

"It did wring my heart, Mary — every rip and every hole cried out 
to me like a living voice, reproaching me for my wicked folly," replied 
Mr. Elliott, gravely. "They were a whole temperance lecture in them- 
selves." 

"O mother, what a lovely, lovely Christmas we have had," said 
Janie, as her mother came to kiss her good-night. There was a beautiful 



64 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

pair of shoes standing on the little dresser, and a new dress of soft 
crimson wool hanging on the bedpost where she could see it at the 
first peep of daylight, and in the next room the ornaments of a tall 
Christmas tree shimmered in the firelight. "How happy father was." 
"Yes, darling, father was happy," replied the mother, with a last 
tender kiss, "and best of all, Janie, he has learned to pray." — Mrs. F. M. 
Howard in Union Signal. 

SAVED BY A TELEPHONE MESSAGE. 

The shock of his father's death was a severe blow to Harry Grant, 
and the resulting necessity of immediately giving up his university 
course was another. His father, the only parent he had ever known, 
was very dear to him, and the manner of his death — suddenly, by a 
railway accident — seemed to add to the affliction. A college education 
had been the supreme ambition of his life. That, too, was over! He 
felt like a man unexpectedly robbed of his all, and was glad that an 
opening for work came in a distant city far away from those who had 
known him, in the office of a stranger to himself, though an old-time 
friend of his father. 

His sorrow did not do him good ; it hardened him. The God whom 
he had been taught to love and revere appeared to him in the light of 
a hard-hearted tyrant, delighting in the misery of his people. Bitterly 
disappointed in his dearest hopes, sure that he might as well give them 
up first as last, there was nothing for him to do but get out of life all 
the pleasure he could as he went along and try to forget r his dreams. 
Thus he reasoned. No wonder that in such a frame of mind he soon fell 
into poor company and took on a species of mild dissipation scarcely 
to be expected in his father's son. 

Mr. Coburn, the young man's employer, a busy, preoccupied man, 
scarcely noticed the youth after the first hour of greeting, and totally 
forgot him in the month that followed, until, indeed, Harry was sent 
to the office with some special message and was thus brought into 
actual contact with him. The changed appearance of the young fellow 
then forced itself upon the merchant's notice. Not that the youth's 
deterioration was so marked as to attract the attention of the ordinary 
observer. It was to Mr. Coburn as if he had looked at his new clerk 
but yesterday and again to-day, and found this remarkable difference 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 65 

over night; for the last remembrance the employer had of this young 
man was that of the afternoon of his arrival, when the stranger's quiet, 
rather sad face and thoughtful manner had made a most favorable 
impression. Now the very fashion in which the young man combed his 
curly hair jarred upon the gentleman, and, added to his flashy tie and 
somewhat assured bearing, disgusted him. 

The merchant sat long after the youth had left his presence, with 
a troubled brow, wondering what had come over Bernard Grant's son. 
He did not like the change in him, and concluded that something must 
be done. Harry Grant's father had been Mr. Coburn's pastor in the 
early days of his Christian experience. He had not meant to neglect? 
his friend's son. He went out of his way that afternoon to invite the 
young man to attend a prayer meeting with him, and was rewarded by 
a very surprised glance and the excuse of a prior engagement. Not 
satisfied, and sure, after investigation, that the lad was going wrong, he 
summoned Harry to his office one day, determined to win his confidence 
if possible and invite him to enter the Sunday school. 

"I'm sorry to have to refuse you anything, Mr. Coburn," the young 
man smilingly replied, when the matter of church and Sunday school 
attendance was introduced. "But I find myself too weary on Sunday 
mornings to get up in time for church, and I generally spend my Sunday 
evenings with the boys. As to Sunday school — well, the fact is, I've 
outgrown it." 

"Your father never did," said Mr. Coburn gravely. "I want to ask 
you in all kindness if you think your present course would meet with 
his approval?" 

The young man was embarrassed and visibly moved by this question. 

"It's too late to consider that now," he said, and left the office abruptly. 

His employer bowed his head upon his hands. He was disappointed and 

discouraged. 

* * * 

"No! you do not mean that Bernard Grant's son is going wrong?" 
Mr. Forsyth turned sharply on his companion. It was Mr. Coburn, 
who, having been summoned to a distant part of the state on business, 
had taken time to communicate his uneasiness over Harry Grant's con- 
dition to a friend living in the city of his sojourn, who was also an old 
friend of the boy's father. 
"I'm afraid he is." 



66 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"What are you doing for him?" 

"Nothing. I've tried to reach him, but he repulses me. I am very 
much to blame. I neglected him when he first came to me. He had 
to leave college — his father, as you know, was never able to save a 
cent while he found so many needs in the world — and I imagine that 
disappointment and discouragement have led the boy to recklessness. 
He seemed a quiet, gentlemanly young fellow, and I never mistrusted 
everything was not right until lately. It's hard for me yet to realize 
that Grant's son is taking the wrong road." 

"He must be stopped at once. Can't you contrive some excuse for 
sending him here to me? I'll find a place for him. New associates and 
a new beginning, with the hope of college ahead, may effect wonders. 
I'll take him right into my family. I should never forgive myself if the 
son of the man to whom I owe so much went wrong when I could 
help it." 

All that busy day Mr. Forsyth's thoughts were with his old friend's 
son. "Beginning to drink, attending the cheap theater and dance," these 
were things Mr. Coburn had hinted at in the life of the son of the man 
who had led him to Christ. He was loath to wait for the turn of affairs 
that might bring the youth to his side. He believed in doing immediately 
what should be done. At eight o'clock that night he was at the long 
distance telephone. 

"Some one wants you over the telephone." The boarding-house 
maid, who had rapped at Harry Grant's door and distracted him in the 
act of tying his cravat, was the speaker. 

"A 'phone message for me?" impatiently. "Well, hold the line, 
I'll be down presently. Strange how everything conspires to delay me 
to-night !" 

There was to be a card-party and "feed" at a famous resort ten or a 
dozen miles from the city that evening, and several autos were to be 
pressed into service to carry the guests to the spot. Jerome Rogers 
— wealthy and dissolute — was the moving spirit of the affair and had 
engaged to carry a number of young couples in his car. He had been 
around to the office, just before closing, to assure himself of Harry's 
presence, and was then partially intoxicated. Harry had laughingly 
advised him to sober up if he intended to act as chauffeur, and was 
now hastening to make ready to join him at the residence of a lady 
friend. He had been delayed, first at the office, then by being obliged 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 67 

to sew on a button; now came this tiresome telephone message. He 
ought to be starting this moment. He caught up the receiver hastily. 

"Is this Mr. Harry Grant?" 

"It is." 

"Son of the late Rev. Bernard Grant?" 

"Yes." 

"Your father's last message, delivered here at N •, was from the 

text, 'Wine is a mocker, stronk drink is raging, and whosoever is 
deceived thereby is not wise/ He lost his life that very night by a 
railway accident due to the carelessness of a drunken engineer." 

Every word came clear-cut and distinct. Harry Grant's face paled 
as he listened. "Who are you?" he inquired, but there was no reply; 
the receiver had been hung up at the other end of the line. 

Moved to his deepest soul, faint and sick, the young man flung 
himself into a chair as soon as he reached the privacy of his own room, 
and covered his face with his hands. The message had all the force of a 
voice from the dead. Why had it come? For days he had been refusing 
to think — indeed, ever since that talk with Mr. Coburn, and now — who 
could the stranger be that had called him up? The voice was unfamiliar 
and he knew no one in N . 

Agitated, distressed, ashamed of himself, the vision of his father's 
pure, strong face and holy life confronted him that hour. Did that 
father have any knowledge of his son's doings? Did he know what that 
son had become? That he had been planning that very night to attend 
a wine-party, he who had been taught to shun strong drink as man's 
most-to-be dreaded foe ! The image of Jerome Rogers as he had seen 
him only a few hours before crossed his mind. And he called this man 
his friend, his intimate ! 

With the thought of Rogers came the remembrance that the lady 
he was to escort to the party was still waiting for his coming. What 
should he do? He consulted his watch; the hour of appointment had 
long since passed; they must have gone without him ere this. He was 
not sure that he was glad, but he was scarcely sorry that he must miss 
the affair. The why of his hindering, that was what puzzled him. 

The young man did not sleep that night. He could not cease 
thinking. An aroused conscience would not be quieted. Early morning 
found him on the street trying to walk off his misery. A newsboy went 
by, and he bought a paper. The first words that met his eyes — in big, 



68 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

glaring type — were these: "Auto Accident! Jerome Rogers, the young 
society man, killed instantly; several persons seriously injured." 

The printed sheet slipped through Harry Grant's nerveless fingers. 
The horror mirrored in his eyes had an admixture of awe. He had been 
kept from participation in this accident. Why? Whose care had saved 
him? In that moment he was as sure of his father's God and His 
protecting oversight as he was of the life-blood throbbing in his veins. 
He bared his head and gave thanks silently for a chance to retrieve his 
late record. 

Harry Grant uses the telephone constantly in his Christian and 
philanthropic work. He says he owes his salvation, body and soul, to a 
telephone message. — Mrs. S. R. Graham Clark in Union Signal. 

THE FAITH OF HETTY RIA 

"Somehow or other," said Hetty Ria to herself, "I've got to do it. 
I, Hetty Maria Jessup, have got to straighten the Jessup family out. 
Ma's lost every bit of spunk she ever had' since Pa's got so bad, and the 
youngsters don't care whether they go to school or not, long with the 
boys and girls calling them 'Old Dan Jessup's kids/ Oh, deary me, it's 
almost too big a job for a girl !" 

Hetty Ria's head sunk forlornly upon her folded arms; the tangled 
brown head trembled with sobs, and all alone, on the back steps of the 
rickety cottage she called home, she struggled with her troubles. Sud- 
denly Hetty Ria sat up, pushed back the tangled hair with her chapped, 
rough hands, and rubbed her wet eyes. 

"I wonder if He would, jest wonder?" she questioned, gazing up into 
the clear sky as though she half expected an angel to appear with a 
golden trumpet and answer her. "He cured the blind folks, and the deaf 
and dumb folks, and even those awful leper folks. Surely He could cure 
pa. My sakes, as if He didn't cure the dead ones, too, and make 'em 
all new ! Course He can cure pa if He wants to. I wonder if He really 
wants to." She pondered doubtfully for a minute, then assured herself, 
"Hetty Maria Jessup, what are you thinking about? Didn't He say, 
'Suffer little children to come unto me?' Course He loves us, every single 
one of us, even if we ain't got nice clothes and shoes and things; per- 
haps He loves us all the more for that. Didn't I tell you," she addressed 
the sun, just sinking in the west, "didn't I tell you 'twas too big a job for 





HETTY RIA 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 69 

a little girl? But it ain't too big a job for a little girl and God together, I 
jest guess. I'm going to get the youngsters all to help, and we'll ask 
Him every single day for one whole week." 

The idea took hold of the childish faith of the younger Jessups, as 
Hetty Ria gathered them about her and told of the wonderful things the 
Jesus, to whom they were to pray, could do. She taught them all, from 
lisping baby Jean to sturdy Ben, how to say the words of prayer. In 
Hetty Ria's ignorant mind, a prayer, to be a really, truly prayer, must be 
said in a church, and this part of the program seemed hard to manage. 
Hetty Ria always believed it was a part of the miracle that the very next 
afternoon as she with her brother and sisters were coming home from 
school, they discovered the back door of the church ajar. Quietly and 
seriously, led by Hetty Ria, the little group entered, climbed the velvet- 
carpeted stairs to the big room, and knelt in one of the pews. The man 
who played the organ always practiced every afternoon at about this 
time, and that was the reason for the open door. As the children entered, 
he sat idly letting his fingers wander over the keys, in a gentle, soothing 
accompaniment to his thoughts. The minister, tired from working on 
his sermon, stole in from his study and took a seat in the church to listen. 
Suddenly a sound other than the organ music caught the minister's ear. 
It came from a near-by pew. He quietly changed his seat to discover 
whence came the sound. There he saw kneeling in the pew five childish 
forms, five reverent little heads bowed upon the cushion, Hetty Ria's 
brown pigtails at one end, and baby Jean's sunny tangle of curls at the 
other. "Jean must begin, cause she's the littlest," instructed Hetty Ria, 
very softly. 

"Dear Jesus," lisped the baby voice, "Please won't you make my dear 
papa a good kind one again like he used to be. Amen." 

"We'd be jest awful glad, please," piped up Nell's shrill voice, "if 
You'd make our pa all over new like You did the leper men. Thank 
You, Oh, no, I mean Amen." 

Ben's joyish, manly voice now chimed in. "We're jest counting on 
Your not going back on your word, Lord Jesus, cause Hetty Ria says 
if folks honest and true ask You for things that's right to have, You said 
You'd sure do 'em, and Hetty Ria knows, for she heard the minister 
say it, and we jest believe You'll do the right thing by pa and us. Amen." 

"It's jest the same thing I want, too," faltered Lisbeth's gentle 



70 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

voice. "Jest to have our papa cured. And please hurry and do it 
right away." 

Hetty Ria's voice trembled a bit, as she closed, "We don't know 
much about praying, dear Lord Jesus, but we know it was You that 
said the children could come, and so we're believing You'll listen, 
even though we don't say it quite right and prayer-like. We'd be so 
much obliged if You could cure pa before Ben's birthday. It's a whole 
month yet. Amen." 

The minister sat as quiet as a mouse, as five pairs of feet crept 
softly down the aisle and out of the door, five pairs of wistful eyes 
looking back at the face of the Christ in the great windows, as if they 
expected the lips to part and the Master's voice to speak to them. 

"Dear Lord and Master," murmured the minister fervently, as he 
watched little Jean's golden head disappear through the door, "Thou 
who canst make the dead to live, save this father, and Master, let me 
have a share in it." 

Hetty Ria lay awake that night until the clock was striking the long, 
long hours, wondering just how God would cure her father. She won- 
dered if He might not send great throngs of white-robed angels down 
from heaven to hover around him and keep the tempters from coaxing 
him to drink the poison that made him so unlike himself. She even 
thought that possibly He might send one, like the angel in the Garden 
of Eden, to stand with a flaming sword before Jim Mulchay's saloon to 
keep such sorely tempted men as her father from going in. She thought 
and thought, until her thinking changed to dreaming, and the air seemed 
full of angels whose soft, gentle fingers soothed and comforted the tired, 
worried child into a dreamless slumber. 

Whether or not Hetty Ria would have recognized them as angels, 
the fact remained that within forty-eight hours after the children left 
the church, angels, dressed not in white robes, but in common, every-day 
dress, were busy helping to answer the children's prayers. 

"If ever there was a message went straight up to God's throne," 
said the minister at least a dozen times the next day, "I'm sure the 
prayer of those babies did. The father to children of such great faith 
is surely worth saving." Not only did he say this a dozen times, but 
he said it to as many as a dozen people, and those dozen people, stirred 
to their hearts' core, lost little time in repeating it. It was remarkable 
how many men remembered within the next few days that they had jobs 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 71 

about their houses or stores that Dan Jessup might do. It was even 
more wonderful, to Dan Jessup at least, that well-dressed, respectable 
business men should take the trouble to stop him on the street and take 
him by the hand in greeting. 

"Anybody'd think," said Dan to himself, "that I'd fallen heir to a 
big fortune, by the fuss they're making. What's the matter with me, I 
wonder? I'm jest the same old bum I was last week when they hurried 
past with their heads turned the other way for fear I'd ask 'em for a 
dime to buy a glass of beer." 

Nevertheless, to his continued surprise, people did make occasion 
to speak to him and to offer him jobs of fixing sidewalks or storm doors, 
treating him like a gentleman while he was doing the work, and never 
failing, it seemed to Dan, to speak of his fine little family, whom every- 
body seemed to know, especially Hetty Ria. He wouldn't admit it to 
himself, but by the second day Dan began secrety to brush his eld 
clothes and rub up his shabby shoes. 

The greatest surprise came, however, when, tempted beyond the 
strength of his feeble will by the possession of a shining silver dollar 
paid by Mrs. Williams for fixing her chicken house, Dan wended his 
way toward Mulchay's dram-shop, and was met at the bar with a gruff 
"Hello, Dan. Can't give you anything to-night. Sorry, but can't. Folks'll 
make trouble for me if I do." Dan stared. 

"Folks?" he inquired angrily. "What folks is trying to run my 
business?" 

"Folks as ain't got business enough of their own, I guess," answered 
the saloon-keeper. "They say there's laws against selling to such men 
as you, and for the sake of your kids, they're going to see it stopped. 
Say, Dan, why can't you go it moderate like, and not be making trouble 
for me?" 

Dan Jessup turned and left the place, without a word. "For the 
sake of the children." The words ran through his angry thoughts. 
Everybody seemed possessed to talk about the children lately, and now 
for their sake somebody had shut the doors of the saloon upon him. 
It was the minister of the big church who interrupted his gloomy 
thoughts. 

"Oh, Mr. Jessup, the very man I was looking for. Have you a half 
hour this afternoon to give me? It's to put up some shelves in my 



72 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

study in the church." Dan, having no excuse, followed the minister. It 
was nearly dusk before the job was finished. 

"Just sit down in that pew a minute," said the minister, "while I 
run up and see if the organist can change a bill so I can pay you." 

As Dan sat in the corner of the church, the little group filed in, as 
the minister felt sure they would at just that hour, and knelt and offered 
again the prayer that their father might be made well. What Dan 
Jessup thought as he listened, no human being knows. He never 
moved as they passed out, Hetty Ria saying cheerfully, "It's a whole 
week now we've been a-praying, it surely won't take much longer. He 
surely won't forget to do it before Ben's birthday." 

Hours after the minister and organist had left the church, and the 
sun had sunk behind the hills and the moon had risen and was shining 
through the window, revealing the face and form of the Christ, Dan sat 
and thought and thought, and at last dropped upon his knees and prayed 
the prayer of the publican, "Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner !" 

That night, late as was the hour of his return, five little Jessups had 
the unusual experience of being kissed "good-night" by their father. As 
if that alone wasn't joy enough, there was a bag of candy tucked into 
each pair of hands as the father left them. 

"Oh, Papa," cried Hetty Ria, as she held him close in her loving 
arms, "did the angels come and cure you, as we asked 'em to. Did they 
for sure, Papa?" 

"I wouldn't dare to say it was a 'for sure' cure, Hetty Ria," replied 
the father with a sob in his voice, "if I had to do it all alone, but with 
five such babies as I've got to be a-praying and a-helping me, I believe 
it's 'for sure' this time." — Julia F. Deane in Union Signal. 

AUNT MARGARET'S STORY. 

"Dearest of Aunties, — Almost as soon as you receive this letter 
I shall be with you, for I am coming to see you early in the morning; 
but all the same I cannot let this night of nights go by without dropping 
you a line to say that I am engaged to Percy Durrant, and that I am 
the happiest girl in the world. — With fondest love, your happy niece, 
May." 

A sweet-faced lady read this note over her solitary breakfast-table, 
and as she did so a tender smile curved her lips. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



"Dear child," she murmured to herself, "I hope she will be very 
happy. She ought to be, Percy is a good fellow," and then her eyes 
grew sad and wistful as recollections of a time in the days of long ago 
filled her mind. As the present thus faded away into the past, and she 
became young again, many pictures rose up before her mind's eye, scenes 
many and varied, but in all of them she saw by her side the same tall 
young fellow who whispered words of love in her ear, and who said that 
he would always be by her side to protect her through life. 

"And this is what it has all come to," she murmured to herself, "a 
lonely old age for me. Ah! but for my folly it might have been very 
different. I must see that May does not make the same mistake." 

A few minutes later and a bright, pretty girl was hugging and 
kissing her. 

"Dear Auntie," she said, "I had to come* and see you early. You 
got my letter, I suppose !" 

"Yes, dear, I have had it to keep me company over my breakfast. 
Let me look at you. Yes, you look happy; your face speaks for itself. 
Now, I want a serious talk with you, and you'll forgive an old woman ; 
won't you, if she speaks a word of warning to you !" 

"If you mean yourself, I'll let you say anything you like," said May, 
impulsively ; "but as for your being old — why ! though your hair is white, 
you seem very young to me, and your heart is as young as anyone's, I 
know. See ! I'll sit here on this little stool and lean my head on your 
knee, and you shall say just what you like to me. There ! this will do 
nicely. Now start away, auntie." 

Silence reigned for a few minutes, and then Miss Feveril said, "I 
can best say what I want to say by first asking you a question. Are you 
going to ask Percy to become a total abstainer?" 

The bright, pretty face clouded, and a look of indecision passed 
over it. 

"I do not know, auntie," was the reply. "It certainly had crossed 
my mind that my temperance friends might possibly think that — as a 
teetotaler — I ought to try to get Percy to join our ranks, now that I'm 
engaged to him ; but I haven't decided yet that I will do so. You see, 
Percy is all but a teetotaler, and I do not feel any fear that he could 
ever be led away by drink, and it would look very much as if I could 
not trust him if I asked him to become an out-and-out abstainer. Don't 
you think so, auntie? What is your opinion?" 



74 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



Miss Feveril did not reply for a few minutes; then she said, "I can 




Courtesy 
Sabbath Reading 



"I had to come and see you early.' 



almost imagine that the years have rolled backwards, and that I am 
listening to my own words as I spoke them to my friend, when she asked 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 75 

me the question I have just asked you. Have you ever wondered why 
I, am a lonely old maid? Listen, and I will tell you the romance of my 
life, and you shall learn how I wrecked my own happiness. 

"I was about your own age, May, when I became engaged to Reg 
Hardy. I was very like what you are now — bright and merry, with a 
light-hearted manner, and capacity for enjoyment. 

In the early part of my engagement to Reg I was perfectly happy. 
Life seemed beautiful and promising, and I felt that I had nothing else 
to wish for. 

When I had been engaged a few weeks, my old friend, Nell Trevor, 
came to stay with me. She, also, was engaged to be married, and her 
fiancee, Will Denvers, lived in our town, so I thought that she and I, 
with Will and Reg, would be able to have some nice outings together. 

"Almost the first night after her arrival she said to me, 'Is Reg a 
teetotaler, Margaret?' 

" 'No/ I replied ; 'but he is next door to one, so it doesn't matter.' 

"'Oh! how can you say that, Meg!" she exclaimed, reproachfully. 
'It matters a great deal, but you are going to ask him to become one 
how, aren't you ?" 

" 'No, indeed ; I'm not, Nell !" I replied. 'If I thought that there was 
any fear of drink getting the mastery over him I most certainly would, 
but as it is, knowing that he only takes a glass very seldom, and then 
Dnly just to be sociable when he is in the company of those who take 
wine, I shall not ask him any such thing. Why,' I continued, 'if I did so 
it would look as if I were afraid of his becoming a drunkard, and as if I 
had no faith in his power over himself.' 

" 'But, Meg,' Nell interrupted, 'as a teetotaler yourself, surely you 
would wish the man you marry to be one, too.' 

"'I don't see why that should matter at all/ I said quickly; T am 
a teetotaler myself, because I have been brought up as one, but I see no 
harm in anyone taking a glass of wine occasionally if he likes to do so, 
and I must confess that I see no reason why anyone should hurl 
anathemas at moderate drinkers. There is no harm in what they do ; 
it is only those who drink to excess who are at fault/ 

"Nell was very quiet for a few minutes after I had spoken thus, and 

then she said in a very low tone, 'I cannot tell you how grieved I am, 

Meg, to hear you speak thus. I never thought you held such opinions.' 

" 'Oh !' I said, impatiently, 'I suppose you are like all other enthu- 



76 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

siastic temperance advocates ; you think that your way is the only right 
way.' 

"Nell broke in here, saying, 'I certainly do think, Meg, that our way 
— the total abstinence way — is the only safe way. Do you suppose that 
any of the drunkards we see in our midst are drunkards from choice? 
No, they are drunkards because they began by being moderate drinkers, 
and then the love of drink grew on them to such an extent that they were 
unable to stop at moderation, and are now slaves to their appetite for 
drink/ 

" 'And do you mean to say/ I interrupted, angrily, 'that you think 
Reg is likely to become a drunkard?' 

" 'You know I do not mean that, Meg/ replied Nell, quietly. 'I 
merely state what is a fact — that the only safe and sure way of avoiding 
the evil consequences of drink is to have nothing at all to do with it. 
And then you must know that 'taking a glass for company's sake,' as 
you express it, is often the cause of many young fellows getting into 
undesirable company, which they would otherwise have been saved from, 
and which leads, in many cases, to gambling and other vices. Oh ! Meg 
dear/ my friend continued, 'do you not see how much better it is to 
be out-and-out a teetotaler and have nothing to do with an evil which 
is the greatest curse of our country?' 

"But to all this talk I was deaf. I was obstinate, and would not 
be convinced ; and Nell, seeing that it was no use talking to me, did not 
mention the subject again. 

"The months went by, and I began to notice a change in Reg, 
slight at first, but becoming more and more noticeable as time went on. 
He seemed unsettled, and had not the same amount of time to spend 
with me that he used to have. It frequently happened that if friends 
asked us to spend the evening with them, he would plead another engage- 
ment. 'It's so slow up there, Meg/ he used to say; and when I looked 
hurt, he added, 'It's not as if we were going to have the evening to our- 
selves ; it would be different then. Let me keep my engagement to-night, 
and be free for a nice, cosy time by ourselves to-morrow.' 

"These things troubled me, for Reg had not hitherto found the 
evenings slow which we had spent together with friends, and I asked 
myself what the change meant. 

"But by-and-by a great fear took possession of me, for one day I 
overheard two people talking, and saying that Reg Hardy would come 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 77 

to no good end if he persisted in keeping company with his present 
friends. 

"'What can it all mean?' I asked myself, and I felt sick and faint. 

"That evening Reg came to see me. He looked tired and out of 
sorts. I asked him if he was not well. 'Oh, I'm all right !' he said, 'but 
I was up late last night, and am a bit fagged out. Linden had a little 
party at his rooms yesterday, that's the reason.' 

" 'Linden,' I repeated, 'who is he? Is he that dark man I have seen 
you with several times lately? I don't like him, Reg; I wish you'd 
give him up. I'm sure he is not a nice friend for you. You're never with 
Will Denvers now, and it used to be so nice that you were chummy with 
him, because of Nell and me.' 

"Reg looked impatient. 'Oh ! don't worry your head, Meg,' he said, 
'Linden is a jolly sort. As for Denvers, I used to think he was right 
enough, but I think he is awfully slow; there's no go in him/ 

"'Does he know Mr. Linden?' I inquired. 

"Reg laughed. 'No, indeed; he's not Linden's sort. Why, I met 
Linden first at a little affair at Patterson's rooms, and it's no use asking 
Denvers to that sort of thing, as he is a teetotaler. By the way, Meg,' he 
went on, 'do you know, I used to think when we were first engaged that 
you'd want me to turn teetotal, and upon my word, I believe if you had 
asked me then, I should have done so. I'm sure I'm much obliged to 
you for not having made the request, for I should never have got in with 
Linden if I had been a teetotaler, and should have missed some jolly 
times.' 

"When Reg said this I felt sick at heart, and all that Nell had said 
to me came back with added force. 

"I must tell you the events of the next few months as quickly as 
possible, for even now it hurts me to think of them. Reg spent more 
and more of his time with Mr. Linden. This man seemed to have 
gained complete ascendancy over him, and from taking a glass 'just for 
company's sake,' Reg became really fond of drink. At last the crash 
came. The position which he held in business was a confidential one, 
and he always had charge of the keys of certain cash drawers, etc. One 
morning a large sum of money was missing, and suspicion fell on Reg, 
for his bunch of keys was found about the place. He protested his 
innocence, and said that he had been in the company of Mr. Linden all 
the evening until he returned home. When, however, Mr. Linden was 



78 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

sent for, so that he might confirm Reg's statement, no trace of him 
could be found, and the opinion was formed that while Reg had been 
under the influence of drink on the previous evening, Mr. Linden had 
taken the keys from his pocket and stolen the money. At any rate, 
though nothing could be proved against Reg in court, his character was 
gone, and his position was lost to him. He grew desperate, and one 
dreadful day took his own life. 

"I cannot tell you what I suffered all that terrible time, May, dear, 
the agony of it was made the more intense because I felt that if only 
I had taken Nell's advice the misery might have been averted. 

"Now you know why I put the question to you : 'Are you going to 
ask Percy to become a teetotaler?' You know what I would have 
you do." 

Next morning Miss Feveril received another note. She opened it, 
and read : 

"Dearest Auntie: I asked Percy the question you advised me to 
ask him, and what do you think he said? That he was only waiting 
for me to ask him to become a teetotaler before promising to do so, 
and that he would have been disappointed in me if I had not asked 
him. Thank you so much for having helped me in this way. I shall 
always feel that I owe much of my happiness to you, and I will do all 
1 can to show you how much I value your advice. Your loving niece, 

May." 

Miss Feveril's smile was very tender and sweet as she folded up 
this letter, but her eyes were filled with a wistful longing, and the hand 
that put the note back into its envelop trembled a little. — Alice Parting- 
ton in London S. S. Times. 

TOM M'HARDY'S BATTLEMENTS. 

"Scotty," said Tom M'Hardy's chum and fellow-salesman behind 
the counter of one of New York's mammoth dry-goods stores, "Scotty, 
a dumb wife should be an unspeakable blessing. I should say I am 
'stung' ; just look at the goods I have been showing her, and all I have 
for my trouble is talk." And the disgusted salesman began to fold up 
the pieces of goods he had been trying to sell and to replace them on 
the adjacent shelves, while the lady, who had tried his patience not a 
little, moved to another part of the store. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 79 

"Guess she'll wake up some morning to find her jaw dislocated.'' 

"Why?" asked Tom M'Hardy, with some amusement. 

"From talking in dry-goods stores, and in her sleep; but I noticed 
that you did not fall asleep." 

"Sleep! My word for it, Scotty, the chick that stays here must 
convince the women that this is the season of the year when they can 
get what they don't want real cheap. If we fail in that — look out for 
your walking papers. Oh, that reminds me, Scotty 

"Yes, madam, the very latest." And Tom's chum was once more 
intent in selling goods, willing to wait for the opportunity of unburden- 
ing his mind to his companion. 

Tom M'Hardy looked the picture of health behind the counter. Tall, 
well built in body, neatly dressed and doing business at last in a place 
where he felt he could move without trampling on the other fellow's 
toes, convinced that now or never ambition's debt must be paid. The 
youth had been in the great metropolis of the western world for a little 
more than a week. Through the kind offices of Scottish friends he had 
secured a position as a dry-goods salesman. Tom was not without 
experience in this line, for he had served his apprenticeship in his father's 
shop in Edinburgh; but the young draper had been too much confined. 
His father's shop had made him restless, almost beyond reason, so that 
there was nothing for his parents to do but tearfully let him go with 
their blessing. 

"Tommy," said the father, "jist tak' this wi' ye, an' if ye need mair 
jist write. An' mind there's aye a place for ye in my shoppie, as there 
is in my hert. May God be tae ye, Tommy, what the Castle Rock was 
tae oor forebears — a refuge and strength in time o' need." And Tom 
M'Hardy took one more fond look toward the summit of the rock. 
"Tom, my dear bairn, dinna forget yer mither, nor yer mither's God," 
was all his mother could say in parting. 

These words of his parents and parting scenes would come to his 
mind when a lull occurred in the store, which was not very often. 
Indeed, he had soon discovered that, to keep up with the procession, 
as his busy life was called, the quiet ways of doing business in his 
father's shop had to be dispensed) with. From morning until night it 
was like a busy bee-hive in the store. People coming and going, hustle 
and bustle, and the new experience was not unpleasing to the youth, 
at least for a time. But, like a veneer, the freshness wore off and he 



80 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

longed for a brief respite from the turmoil of the daily routine. 

"Scotty, as I was going to say before that angel of a woman came 
along," Tom's chum said, still looking in the direction in which the lady 
was moving, who had made a splendid purchase, "to-morrow is Sunday 
— where will it be?" 

"To church for me," replied Tom, but not with firm resolve. 

"My good Saint Thomas," Jim Burnham said with a sneer, "you'll 
soon find out that only old women and children attend church in this 
country." 

"Do you often go yourself?" Tom inquired. 

"No ; gave it up long ago." 

"Then how do you know?" 

"Look here, Scotty, I'll toss you for church or Coney." 

"Heads, it's Coney; tails, it's church," and he sent a quarter spinning 
up above their heads. When the coin fell fiat on a piece of goods lying 
on the counter, Jim slapped his chum on the shoulder and said, "Head, 
it's Coney !" 

The Sunday dawned beautiful and bright. Hundreds poured out 
of the city by train and steamer. Crowds thronged the seaside resort, 
and Tom M'Hardy was soon lost in the gay vortex. 

"Tom," said Burnham, "let's have a drink." 

"I don't drink, Jim." 

"Now, look here, you 'innocent abroad,' just step inside while I 
discuss a glass, anyway." And they went in together. 

The scene was revolting enough to Tom, not accustomed to the 
place, but the youth had not enough backbone to stand his ground and 
say "No." 

"Have a drink, Tom; just one," he urged. 

"Fresh, is he?" asked the bartender. "Well, we need them all. We 
can no more run this here joint without new ones any more than you 
can run a saw mill without new logs." 

"And if we drink enough we will have as much life in us as the 
logs," thought Tom, but without courage to say it. 

When they emerged from the saloon, Jim said in his flippant style : 
"You know what the apostle said about taking a little for the stomach's 
sake ?" 

"If the apostle's was not any better than what we had in there," 
replied Tom, "I'm sorry for him." Still, Tom seemed powerless to resist 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 81 

the treacherous arts of sin, guided on by Jim Burnham, until, although 
for the time honied, it was after all the sting of sin. Tom's downfall 
was gradual but sure. There followed the money stringency and hard 
times. They could do without many clerks in the store, and for more 
reasons than one, Tom M'Hardy was, with many others, out of employ- 
ment. Of late Tom had not been the bright, swift salesman his beginning 
had promised. With mind infected, feeling the cruel pangs of remorse 
for his manner of living, poor Tom M'Hardy was left alone face to face 
with the listless life, until he wished himself dead. His mother's parting 
words burned into his very soul, now that he had time to think of them : 
"Dinna forget yer mither, nor yer mither's God." That was just exactly 
what he had done, and his soul cried out, as from within a dark dungeon, 
for relief. What could he do, and where could he go? 

It was Sunday evening and the hour for evening worship. Walking 
along West Fifty-seventh alone he followed, almost unconsciously, the 
people who were reverently crowding into a church. He could go in a 
church now, seeing that there was no Jim Burnham to sneer him out 
of the idea. Taking a seat at the rear, he waited for the service to 
begin. He was compelled to go back to Edinburgh in thought while 
he thus waited, and he could see in the family pew his aged father and 
mother sitting there. The coming in of the members of the large chorus 
disturbed his reverie. The music, as if the speech of angels, reached his 
heart. It was the first happy, contented moment he was experiencing for 
many a day, as the service of reverent worship went on its way, in God's 
beautiful sanctuary. As the preacher 'unfolded his theme, "The Christian 
Safeguards," Tom M'Hardy felt that every word was spoken for him, 
as if he composed the entire congregation. The Spirit of God touched 
his heart and gripped it as with hooks of steel and would not let him go. 
The preacher was eloquent in the true sense of the word, ever keeping 
himself in the focus of Christ's personal life and love, and under the 
zenith light of His cross. 

Natural, suggestive and helpful his theme was developed, in some 
such way as the rose is unfolded from the bud. The Christian Sabbath, 
family prayer and the Bible were mentioned as the safeguards of the 
Christian, and Tom M'Hardy sat condemned, knowing full well how 
much he had neglected these since coming to America. Moreover, he 
reflected, Scotland's best was brought about by these same safeguards. 
But it was not until the personal and climatic appeal was made that 



82 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



proved to be the turning point in Tom M'Hardy's career. "Put up the 
battlement now," exclaimed the preacher with tremendous power and 




"Tom M'Hardy felt that every word was spoken for him.' 



holy passion, "because, if not now you may never do it; time hastens, 
youth is going, age comes, death approaches. Oh, men and Women! 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 83 

come to the Lord Jesus this day, I beseech you; and having done this, 
we know that if the balustrades of our earthly house of this tabernacle 
were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens." 

The sermon had come to a close, but not its influence, which would 
go on forever. The closing hymn was sung and sweet benediction given, 
but Tom M'Hardy was quite oblivious to either, as with bended head 
and heart he had come to the turn in the way. Amidst intense silence 
he put up the battlements of the soul, and there was rejoicing in the 
presence of the angels in Heaven. Looking up now, he saw the people 
retire from the sacred building with peace written on their faces. The 
preacher had come down from the sacred desk and was speaking the 
kindly word to those near by. 

"I'll go and speak to him — he looks so kind," said Tom to himself. 
"He looks so kind" Could there be a higher compliment? The face 
of the minister was a cordial invitation to come to him and confide and 
get help. And Tom's opportunity came. In the quiet of the minister's 
study Tom unfolded his life and heart and was prepared to accept the 
proffered advice. 

"Your father wishes you to return?" 

"Yes," responded the youth quietly. 

"Then why not? Do you need any money?" 

"I have enough for the passage home. I'll go !" 

"Right, my boy! Show that, while some modern prodigals come 
home in a cab and charge up expenses to the family, since you have put 
up the battlements, you can pay your own way. Good>-bye, my son, 
and heaven bless you!" And Tom M'Hardy went out into the night 
a new man. 

In course of time an advertisement appeared in the Daily Scotsman. 
It read : M'Hardy & Son, drapers, Princess street, Edinburg. — Rev. Wm. 
T. Dorward, in Scottish American. 

THE SALOON AT THE SETTLEMENT. 

Mrs. Ephraim Burdick Relates How It Got a Foothold and How the 
Community Was Rid of It. 

Burdick settlement has never bin a growin' place, as you might say, 
bein' off the railroad. It is situated in New Berlin township, Greenville 



84 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

County, which is a prosp'rous farmin' district, specially in the line of 
dairyin'. 

Yet, as I sed, we never seemed to have any special boom to make 
us grow. 

Of course, our church prospered and we had our seasons of spiritual 
refreshin'. 

We had a fine, new, brick schoolhouse, with two rooms, and paid 
first-class wages to our teachers. Three years ago, she that was Cornelia 
Simms, old Squire Simms' daughter, who married a wealthy man in 
Buffalo, sent us a library of five hundred volumes. 

"But it is a dead town. Nothin' a-doin'," sed young Ned Burdick 
and Luther Sprague every time I saw them. "There ought to be a saloon 
at The Corners, and it would pick up a little," sed Luther, winkin' slyly 
at Ned. "Don't you think it would improve business, Aunt Philena?" 

"Some kinds of business, yes," sez I. 

Well, two unexpected things happened. 

The fishin' has grown to be uncommon good over to Si Sprague's 
pond, now known as Echo Lake, nestled down among the hills and just 
below The Ledges, which is, if I do say it, a very picturesque spot. Some 
fellows from Greenville put up a cottage there two years ago. Si leased 
them the ground for ninety-nine years. It brought a lot of people from 
Greenville and Si declared he would put up a hotel, and sure enough, 
it did prove a success. He got some city boarders and then he converted 
the sulphur spring on the hillside, just above, in a sort of sanitarium, 
claimin' it had wonderful medicinal qualities. 

Well, it was the talk of the town. Si's folks alus was a little 
worldly, and they had their dance hall and drawed in lots of young folks. 

Next thing that happened to boom the town was a big can-nin* 
factory that was put up right across the road from Phlambert's house. 

You see, Carson Sloan fell heir to the old Meeker farm. He had 
been in the cannin' business and so he came and built a large factory 
and converted the fifty acres of good creek bottomland into a garden, and 
advertised he would buy all the stuff our townspeople could raise besides. 
He employed about a hundred people in the garden and factory and that 
made work for everyone around who needed it, and he had to import 
several hands. They had to have houses to live in, or boardin' places. 
That made work for carpenters, a sale for lumber, and a chance to keep 
boarders for our women folks. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 85 

Sloan was a great man at the settlement. Everybody looked up 
to him. He was a great politician and manager. He attended church 
and paid well. Why, he often dropped a dollar and sometimes a "V" in 
the plate ! He came to all the socials at the church and et dish after dish 
of ice cream at ten cents a dish. 

I went up to the city to stay with Philander a few weeks in case of 
sickness, and when I got back, what do you think they'd done? Well, 
that old cheese factory beyond the cannin' factory, not forty yards from 
Phlambert's, had been converted into a saloon, and Clem Miller had 
taken out the first license issued in New Berlin township in twenty-five 
years. 

I sot down in my spare room, with my bonnet still on, and covered 
my face with my hands and groaned, as it were, with mortal agony. 

Finally, raisin' my head, I cried, "Ephraim Burdick! how did it 
happen? 

"Well, mother," sez he, "nobody hardly knows. You see, we have 
got so much goin' on in our town now, there seemed to be a demand 
for it. If there is a saloon here, it will draw folks into town, instead of 
their runnin' off to London or Greenville to spend their money. It puts 
money into circulation in our town." 

"It puts money into a different set of hands, to be sure. It puts 
money ito Clem Miller's hands and it passes from him to the whole- 
sale dealers, to be sure, but where is the good in that?" 

"Well, you see, they arger," sez Ephraim, "that the people will 
come to town, attracted by the saloon, and leave more or less money 
in the stores and business places. Otherwise, they would go to some 
other town." 

"Do you suppose," sez I, "that the amount they will spend in 
business places will be as much as our own folks round the settlement 
would waste in the saloon? Why, Ephraim Burdick! you ought to be 
on your knees prayin' that retribution would fall on this accursed 
business." 

Phoebe Esther was terribly wrought up. She did not say much, 
but her face was set in that determined way and you know she would 
never give up. 

"Ain't it terrible?" I sez, and it was all I could say. 

"It is the same old accursed business," sez Phoebe Esther, "that has 
blighted and blasted homes and human lives, that has coiled itself around 



86 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



the posts and pillars of our legislative halls and bought the honor and 
manhood of our so-called statesmen, till purity and honesty and Christian 
manhood can no longer vie with its mighty political power. Yes, Mother 
Burdick, it is terrible, but no more terrible because it has settled itself 
on a little spot in our town. But it shall not stay ! God helping me/' 




Courtesy 

Rome Herald Co. 

'Now Elnathan, I want you to tell how you got to comin' in here." 



From Phoebe Esther's kitchen window she could see the saloon and 
she took notice who went in, and many a boy not of age she seen cross 
the threshold in the first few weeks. 

Well, she called the mothers together and they went in a body and 
forbid Clem Miller a-sellin' to their boys. He laughed and sed, "If you 
can't govern your boys and keep them at home, you needn't expect me to 
do it for you." 



STORBES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 87 

Elnathan, Phoebe Esther's second son, who is now a lad of sixteen, 
alius was different than the rest of the children, and since the cigaret 
episode I told you about one time, his parents have watched him pretty 
closely. Someone sed he was hangin' around Miller's a good deal, gettin' 
dismissed from school at half past two in the afternoon on- the plea of 
helpin' his pa. 

So Phoebe Esther watched, and about that time she and her daugh- 
ter Mandy went over and Mandy went to the front door and Phoebe 
Esther to the back door. As Mandy opened the front door Elnathan 
seen her and made a dive for the back door and run right into his 
mother's arms. She took him by the arm and marshaled him back, and 
facin' Clem Miller, she sed: 

"Now, Elnathan, I want you to tell me how you got to comin' in 
here. Did Mr. Miller invite you?" 

Elnathan hung his head. Phoebe gave him a good shake. 

"He — he — he sed if I'd come in here every afternoon and help, 
and slip out after my folks thought I was in bed an hour or two, he'd 
give me two dollars a week," stammered Elnathan. 

"It's a lie," sed Miller. "He struck me for a job." 

"Well, you told Bill Chapin to hunt you up a boy, anyhow," said 
Elnathan. 

"We'll go home now," said 1 Phoebe Esther. 

"Ha ! before I'd be bossed round by my old woman," sneered a fel- 
low at a card table. 

"Dry up," said Elnathan. With all his faults he respects his mother. 
, "Don't you think the boy is gettin' too old to be dictated to about 
goin' out?" sed Miller. 

"Mr. Miller," said Phoebe Esther, "I don't believe in bringin' up 
children with so much pains and care and just at the time when they 
need control most, lettin' them go off and lettin' them get an idea they 
are too big to mind. Come on, Elnathan," and they went home. 

Well, of course, we all knowed Clem Miller was sellin' to minors 
right along, but how was you goin' to prove it, and if you did, how 
would you get justice done? It has been tried over and over again. You 
have read it in your temperance stories ; you have heard it in temperance 
lectures. The same power that gives a man a saloon protects his business. 

"So it won't be any use to go through all that," sed Phoebe Esther, 
and our minister, who had seen it all tried in other places, sed the same. 



88 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Phoebe Esther and Phlambert put a watch over Elnathan night and 
day and exhorted other folks to do the same. 

"I'll lock the boy up till he is of age, if necessary," said Phoebe 
Esther, "before he shall enter a saloon again." 

How about the moral suasion? She gave him that in small doses, 
you may be sure; but this was a time for action. 

But there was lots of folks at the settlement who couldn't control 
their boys; and women who were in mortal fear of their husbands' 
drinkin\ 

What could be done? 

A day was appointed for fastin' and prayer. The minister gave it 
out in church. At the close of the day the people who felt the burden 
of the matter were invited to meet for prayer and conference. 

Phoebe Esther seemed to be the rulin' spirit in the agitation over 
the settlement saloon, and when we gathered at her house at the close 
of our day of fastin' and prayer, she spoke with an earnestness and faith 
that seemed to thrill us all. 

"We must not let this terrible business go on here in our midst," 
sed she. "It'll be easier to get rid of it now than after it has obtained 
a footin'. We all know how it works in other places; we are members 
of temperance societies ; we know of the power of the saloon ; we 
believe in moral suasion ; we have tried it, but it has not kept the saloon 
away. The power of the ballot is strong, and yet, in spite of that, the 
saloon is here, while we know the majority of the people who elected 
the excise commissioners didn't want it. If we vote it out, we must 
wait till next spring. God only knows what evil may be accomplished 
before then. There has never been a human power found stronger than 
the saloon. We have little to hope for, humanly speaking. God alone 
is mightier than the saloon. Why did He not prevent its coming? 
Because His people did not work with Him. The only way to get His 
strength is to link ourselves with Him. Then no power on earth can 
resist His power." 

So, with that feelin' we knelt in prayer. Frank Webb's folks, 
Cousin Peleg, who was really waked up to the situation, Ephraim and 
I, and the minister and his wife, and Squire Dodson, and some of his 
folks were present. 

How Phoebe Esther prayed ! I never felt that God was so real 
or near before. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 89 

And Frank Webb made a full consecration of all he had, if God 
wanted it, to bring about the result. He sed: 

"Oh, Lord, take every cent of my money, if need' be, to bring about 
the overthrow of this business." 

And Squire Dodson, who is very well fixed, sed, "Amen! and mine 
too, if you need it." 

At last we rose from our knees. The room was very still. Outside 
the low rumble of thunder broke the quietness and an occasional flash 
of lightnin' lit up the room, though half an hour before the sky was 
clear. We stood and sang : 

"Oh! for a faith that will not shrink, 
Though pressed by every foe; 
That will not tremble on the brink 
Of any earthly woe." 

Just then there came a blindin' flash of lightnin' and a terrible crash 
of thunder, but we sang on. The rain came dashing against the win- 
dows, and a light, not from any flash of lightnin', lit up the room. We 
turned to the window. The flames were shootin' up from Miller's saloon. 
Dark objects were runnin' to and fro. Our men rushed out to see if 
anyone was hurt. As it happened, there was no one seriously injured, 
althought the boy that lived at Sister Blivens' was badly shocked and 
Cousin Peleg's youngest boy was somewhat hurt. There was a good 
stock of liquor on hand and the buildin' went like powder, for the bolt 
of lightnin' run right into the cellar where the supply was and they 
never saved a drop. "It looks like it was a torch of God's own lightnin,," 
said Aunt Hannah Jane Bethel. "Poor Clem. I hope he ain't injured, 
though, for he was such a dear little boy. I took care of him for six 
months after his own mother died.' 

Well, there was great excitement at the settlement next day. We 
hoped as Clem Miller had no insurance, he wouldn't build up again. 
But we heard that Carson Sloan had promised to -back him and he 
began to look around for a place to open up temporarily. There was 
the old storeroom belongin' to Rant Gale. Clem went and made him an 
offer for that for six months. We heard of it and Frank Webb and 
Squire Dodson and Cousin Peleg and Milt Lakin went to see him. They 
told him it would be a sin to rent it for that purpose and against the 
rules of the church. But Rant is in a backslidin' state anyway, and he 
argered that the room was standin' idle and no one else would pay like a 



90 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

saloonkeeper would, and, of course, there wouldn't be likely to be an- 
other store start up in the settlement. 

Finally Squire Dodson sed, "You may tell Miller you have rented 
the building for $2.00 a month more than he offered." 

"What do you mean?" said Rant. 

"I mean I will lease it for a year at them riggers and fix up the 
writin's before we leave the house today." So they did it, and Milt 
Lakin, who had just been appointed postmaster, moved his office into 
the front part of the room, and they parted off the rear end with screens 
and fixed it up pretty as a parlor and had the new library in there and 
some little tables for games. Then Milt's daughter had a little bakery 
store in front with candy and bread and cakes to sell. Squire Dodson's 
cripple son tended the library and it was all agoin' inside of a week. 

"Well, we knew Miller had lost a sight of money ; he had his license 
all paid for and no way to make it up so quick as in the saloon business. 
So we didn't expect we had downed him. Still folks was afraid to rent 
to him for fear something would happen to their buildin's. 

Finally, we heard he had hired a part of Jim Ashcraft's new barn, 
till he could put up a buildin' of his own. He didn't want to use 
the old site, bein' it was so near Phoebe Esther's. 

Well, we had prayed and committed the matter to God, but we ex- 
pected to work as He led and to watch and pray, and we certainly 
watched. 

After all, it came about in such a quiet way, God usin' one of His 
humblest instruments to work out His will. 

Aunt Hannah Jane Bethel somehow never gets on the defensive 
side in such a decided way that every lady don't claim her as a friend. 
She ain't got much active fight in her, yet she is as firm as the everlastin' 
hills. She was born a Quaker. She went over to stay to Clem Miller's 
a few days, Mis' Miller not bein' well. I got the partic'lars from Mis' 
Miller, who overheard the conversation from her bedroom. Clem came 
in at night just about bedtime and set down by the kitchen stove, where 
Aunt Hannah Jane set mendin' his socks. They got to talkin' about the 
old times and Clem's mother. Aunt Hannah Jane sez : 

"A sweeter, kinder woman never lived. Do you mind, Clem, that 
night after the funeral, when you set in my lap with your little curly 
head on my shoulder, and I told you of the beautiful country where she 
had gone?" 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



91 



Aunt Hannah Jane hitched her chair up a little closter and laid her 
hand on Clem's knee. "And you sed, 'I tell you, I'm goin' to be good all 
my life, so's I can go there when I die." 

Clem's voice trembled. "I never cease to miss her, Aunt Hannah 
Jane. I never shall get that lonesome feelin' out of my heart." 

"Till we meet her over there and are all together again, dear," sed 
Aunt Hannah Jane, gently. 




Courtesy Home Herald Co 
'You lost a sight of money in the fire, Clem." 

"Well, I know folks think I'm bad, but a fellow's got to live, some- 
way." 

"Yes," sez Aunt Hannah Jane. "Didn't the farm pay pretty well?" 

"Yes, but it's a dog's life, though to be sure, folks wan't howling 
round as they do now." 

"You lost a sight of money in the fire, Clem." 

"Yes ; but Sloan will advance money when I set up again." 

"What security will he ask?" 

"Oh, a mortgage on the farm, but I can soon clear it off." 



92 STORIES OF HELL'S C OMMERCE 

"I remember how glad you were when you got it clear before. Why 
don't you just let it go this time? You see, if the curse of God is on the 
business, and people are against it here it may not succeed, and then 
you might lose the farm." 

"But I've paid for my license and it's good for a year." 

"I never see a license," said Aunt Hannah Jane. "I wish you would 
show it to me." 

"Clem brought it along. Aunt Hannah looked it over carefully and 
inquired the price. Then she took a roll of bills from her pocket, and 
spreading them on her knee, sed: 

"Now, Clem, I have a little money here I've saved to put into some 
good work. Sell me the license. Of course I can't do business on it 
without some legal arrangements, but I want to pay you for it. You 
have lost heavily in the fire, but this will help a little." 

I don't know how it came about, but time run on and the saloon 
didn't open up. And after our folks saw it was not likely to, Phlambert 
and Frank Webb went to Clem with a purse of money they had made up 
for him to help lift the mortgage he'd put on his stock and team to help 
raise the money to start the saloon, and he is back in church again after 
bein' out for years. 

The other day Aunt Hannah Jane took out a little box, and opening 
it, she unfolded a piece of paper, sayin', "I don't mind showin' you this, 
if you don't say anything, Sister Burdick. It was Clem's license." 

"And you was so quiet we never thought you cared about the saloon 
as we did," sez I. 

"I never had any idea Clem Miller would keep saloon long, if I could 
help it," sed Aunt Hannah Jane. "Still it was God's way of answerin' 
the prayer of faith." 

It w r an't strange He took the humble faithful instrument He did to 
work out His own Divine will. — Florinda Twichell in Ram's Horn. 

THE VOICE OF THE PILOT. 

"What though the mast be now blown overboard, 

The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, 
And half our soldiers swallowed in the flood? 

Yet lives our pilot still." — Shakespeare, Henry VI. 

Leonard Newcomb closed the book and tilting back his chair sat 

with hands clasped behind his head. The bright light from a reading 

lamp threw his strong young face into bold relief against surrounding 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 93 

shadows of the otherwise dim room. His eyes remained fastened on 
the cover of the volume he had just closed, as though he still saw the 
lines which had caught and held him. Unconsciously his mouth settled 
into firm lines of resolve. With a slight thud the forelegs of his chair 
reached the floor, as though with them he pinned down some hard-won 
decision. Rising, he walked slowly up and down the sanctum, with 
hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

"Well, I guess that about fits my case," he soliloquised. "Every- 
thing will probably have to go by the board, but — I'll try to keep the 
pilot in charge of the ship !" 

With a quick, impulsive gesture he drew out a notebook and copied 
the lines he had just read. Underlining "pilot," he wrote in the margin 
"conscience." Then, after one quick glance round the cozy den, he 
opened the door and descended a wide flight of luxuriously carpeted 
stairs. 

It was a hard battle which Leonard Newcomb had just won — a hard 
errand upon which he was bound ! He had not thought that life could 
hold passes so narrow that right and wrong seemed almost to touch. In 
the recent struggle he had steered through the fret of foaming waters 
guided solely by the word of his pilot — conscience. Now he was out 
upon the open sea, ready to face any impending storm, but no longer 
fearful of the shallows of self-deception. 

Fifteen years before, when Leonard was a fair-haired little lad of 
four, he had been taken, and practically adopted, by an older, unmar- 
ried brother of the father who was to him but a misty memory. Not 
even that impression remained with him of his young mother's face. 
But he had never been allowed to feel his childhood's loss. His uncle's 
affection and the care of a doting nurse, Ellen O'Connor, enwrapped his 
earlier years. He found himself, now, with scarcely a manhood's wish 
ungratified. Only a week before he had returned home one day to find 
his "den" refurnished in handsome leather and mahogany — a little pri- 
vate facsimile of the library below. 

"It is time you had a man's room, Len," the elder Newcomb had 
said, smiling at the young fellow's pleasure, while they stood surveying 
the well-filled bookshelves. Leonard halted on the stairs now, catching 
his breath with a hard jerk of pain as the little scene rose before him. 
He could not quite remember when first the word "brewery" became 
associated in his mind with his uncle's business. But he vividly recalled 



94 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

the day, two years before, when, upon exhibiting to some schoolmates a 
handsome gold watch and seals, the birthday gift of his guardian, one of 
the boys had turned away with a slight shrug and the muttered com- 
ment, "Beer!" Leonard never forgot the conflicting sensations of that 
moment. Indignation, resentment, and underneath all, something — was 
it shame — stirring into uneasy life? The youthful "pilot," conscience, 
tried his sturdy limbs vigorously for the first time that day in an effort to 
get control of the ship for the voyage of life. Since then Leonard had 
been more or less aware of that pilot's presence on board. On this even- 
ing, however, things had come to a climax. He was forced to decide, 
once and for all, by whose word he would steer. 

"Len," his uncle said, as they sat facing each other at the dinner 
table, while a soft-footed servant anticipated every want, "how would 
a three months' trip abroad strike you for the coming summer?" 

"Uncle !" The young fellow's knife and fork dropped with a little 
clatter to his plate. His face showed such radiant anticipation that 
Nathaniel Newcomb smiled. 

"I think it can be arranged," the man of wealth went on in a grat- 
ified tone. "I have, in fact, already had some communication with a 
young college professor, who would act as your 'guide, philosopher, and 
friend/ " 

"Then you could not come?" Leonard's face fell. 

"No. But I want you to take the trip. I want you to see a little of 
the world before — " 

The sentence remained unfinished. Mr. Newcomb put out his hand 
to take a dish which the maid had just brought in and, as he did so, the 
eyes of uncle and nephew met. In that look one of those strange inter- 
changes of thought seemed to pass between them which do not need 
words. Leonard shivered, as though a cold wind had touched him. He 
leaned back in his chair. All appetite for the well-cooked dinner had 
departed. 

Could it — could it be that his uncle wished him to succeed to the — 
"business?" That was how he interpreted the look. A sudden feeling of 
nausea swept over him as the suggestion grew to conviction. 

"Whew ! It is warm in here tonight. May I go, Uncle Nat ?" he 
asked when the coffee had been brought in. 

Contrary to his usual custom, which was to sit for a while with his 
uncle in the library, he went at once to his "den" and threw himself into 




'You feel yourself above it, no doubt." 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 95 

one of the deep leather chairs. Everything in the room had been ar- 
ranged to give him pleasure. Everything was a gift of love from his 
uncle. Was he justified in going against his wishes — in disappointing 
him in anything? 

For a while this thought held him. Then rose the other side. To 
use his manhood, the strength of body and mind which he felt tingling 
through every vein, the vitality which "rejoiceth as a strong man to run 
a race," in the manufacture of beer? For that was practically what it 
amounted to, even though his work would be in the office. Never ! Un- 
consciously, as he made the decision, his muscular young shoulders 
straightened. Just at that moment his eyes fell on the open Shakespeare 
on the table. In the midst of confusion his "pilot" still lived. He would 
see to it that he kept control of the ship. 

Mr. Newcomb was reading near the long library table when he 
went downstairs again. "Going out this evening, Len?" he asked. 

"No, Uncle Nat. I — in fact, I want to speak to you." 

There was a slight tightening of the lips as Nathaniel Newcomb laid 
down his book. That the young man before him was quick of percep- 
tion he knew. The change in his face and loss of appetite at the dinner 
table had not passed unnoticed by the keen eyes which observed him. 

"Well?" Unconsciously his voice had stiffened and grown colder. 

Leonard remained standing, his hand gripping the back of a heavy 
mahogany chair. 

"It isn't fair, Uncle Nat," he began, "to let you go on doing every- 
thing for me and, perhaps, thinking that I could ever — could ever " 

It was harder to say than he thought. He stopped and moistened 
his lips. 

"Well?" The word cut the silence in two like cold steel. 

"Could ever succeed you in the — the business." 

It was out! He drew a deep breath of relief. His uncle's eyes 
were fixed on the floor; his finger tips tapped the polished surface of 
the table. 

"You feel yourself above it — no doubt." Again the chill tone 
broke a tense silence. 

"I do." Involuntarily Leonard straightened his strong, young body. 
"Though not in the way you think, uncle. I would do any work — the 
hardest work — as long as " 



96 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Mr. Newcomb cut short his eager protestations with one uplifted 
hand. 

"Is that all?" 

"No, I — I would rather — not take — the trip to Europe. I am old 
enough to — to do something on my own account now." 

A bitter smile crossed the elder man's face. "I understand — 
perfectly," he said with slow distinctness. "You are, indeed, your 
mother's son ! A Leonard every whit." 

He rose • deliberately, and going to a desk in one corner of the 
room, took from it a paper. Holding the document in his left hand, he 
turned and faced Leonard, whose strong, young face had grown very 
white. 

"Twenty-one years ago to-night," he said, slowly, "your father 
stood before me and said what you are saying now — said it when I 
had just drawn up the papers which were to take him into partnership, 
as" — he tapped with his right forefinger the document which he still 
had — "I, to-day, pleased myself by drawing up this! He preferred a 
clerkship on a pittance of twenty dollars a week to a position with me 
which would have given him more than five times that amount, and — 
he had his way. It was due to the influence of his wife's family. You 
have evidently inherited something from the Leonards besides the 
name !" 

With a jerk he tore the paper in two and tossed it aside. The 
action seemed to unloose all the torrent of his pent-up anger and dis- 
appointment. 

"Go !" 

His voice was as the sudden crash of storm-charged clouds in its 
vibrant harshness, as he pointed to the door. 

"Uncle Nat !" Leonard started forward with outstretched hands, his 
face pale and quivering — "hear me! Don't send me from you like this! 
Don't you see how much easier it would be for me to do the thing that 
you wish — to follow 'the line of least resistance'? But — it would mean 
the death of all that is best in me — of all that will ever make my life 
worth while ! It isn't that I am ungrateful — that I love you — any — 

the less " His voice stopped, shut off by a wall of sobs which his 

manhood held back. At another time the appeal would have moved and 
melted the man who loved him. But, unconsciously, Leonard had, in 
one slash, by his bravely expressed convictions, severed the ropes with 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 97 

which, thirty-five years before, Nathaniel Newcomb had bound down his 
pilot. Those bonds had changed so rapidly into fetters of gold that for 
years conscience, apparently, slept. Now he realized that the pilot was 
awake, ready to take vengeance for that long thraldom, that already 
he had begun to cut with stinging lashes. And Nathaniel Newcomb 
could not readily forgive the hand which had plunged him into renewed 
warfare with such a foe. Moreover, the cloak of self-complacent philan- 
thropy in which he wrapped himself, and which he invariably drew 
before his eyes when passing a saloon which bore the sign, "Newcomb's 
best ale and beer," slipped from him and he saw Nathaniel Newcomb 
as he was — a man who catered to the weakness of his fellows and 
enriched his own coffers by that weakness. 

But, as yet, the vision brought only a seething wave of anger 
against the "boy" who had thrust him back into the storm of inner 
conflict which he had thought forever stilled; who had, all unwittingly, 
held up before his eyes his own cramped, sordid soul. 

"Go !" The word was ground out with labored breath, as he pointed 
again to the door. "All obligation between you and me is at an end. 
At least — find the miserable clerkship you prefer and support yourself 
as soon as possible !" 

"Got that policy finished, Newcomb ?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Mr. Burbank, senior partner of the firm of Burbank & Hubbard, 
fire insurance agents, took the paper which Leonard brought him and 
reentered the private office. His critical eye scanned the sheet closely 
before laying it on his desk. 

"Young Newcomb takes hold all right," he remarked to his partner 
with evident satisfaction. "None of the thoughtless mistakes with 
which Frank Witter interlarded his work. 

"Witter only kept the tail-end of his mind on what he was doing, 
and Newcomb gives himself wholly to it — that's the difference," Mr. 
Hubbard replied, without lifting his head from the document upon 
which he was engaged. After a moment's silence he swung round in 
his office chair and, with a motion toward the closed door, said, in a 
lowered tone : "I wonder what the trouble was between him and the 
uncle?" 

Mr. Burbank also turned slowly until he faced the younger man. 
"I don't think the answer to that is hard to find." He waved one hand 



98 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

toward a window, through which, in the distance, the tall chimneys of 
Newcomb's brewery could be seen belching out volumes of black smoke. 

"You think it was that?" Sydney Hubbard's eyebrows raised them- 
selves as he followed the other's glance. 

"I do." 

"Whew ! The lad must have grit. It's a far cry from a brownstone 
residence, six thousand dollar touring car and spending money in plenty, 
to getting along on a salary of ten dollars a week." 

"It is. But, if I read him aright, Leonard Newcomb will never 
juggle with his convictions. It would be impossible for him to follow 
the slippery path of compromise, because he saw that ultimately the 
way would be paved with dollars, as, I shrewdly suspect, the uncle did 
at his age when he accepted a position in Bingham Brothers' Brewery, 
as it was then. I used to know Nat Newcomb well in those days — one 
of the brightest young fellows in the city!" 

"It must have been a terrible wrench for both of them," Mr. Hub- 
bard said, musingly, going back to the primal object of their conver- 
sation. 

"I don't like to think ot it," the senior partner's brows drew 
together as though conjecture about the matter gave him pain, "and 
it has left its mark on the boy. Sydney, believe me" — the elder man's 
voice grew husky — "that lad is fashioned out of the stuff that martyrs 
are made of. If I am not greatly mistaken, this thing has been to him 
a case of 'He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy 
of me.' " 

In the outer office Leonard bent over his desk, the whole force of 
his mind concentrated on becoming familiar with the business he had 
entered and of value to his employers. He could not yet think of the 
day, nearly two months before, when he had turned his back on the 
only home he had ever known, without a stab or pain so keen that it 
seemed to turn everything dark before his eyes. Before leaving the 
house he had sought out his old nurse, Ellen O'Connor, who now acted 
as housekeeper, and trying to make her understand what had occurred, 
begged her to let him have news of his uncle. The good woman flung 
up her hands in dismay. 

"Wisha, Mr. Len, 'tisn't thinkin' of goin' ag'en the master's wishes 
you'd be?" she demanded. Then, as Leonard, seeing the futility of 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 99 

explanation, patted her shoulder affectionately: "Oh, sure, 'tis ruinin' 
yer prospects entirely ye are !" 

She had followed him to the door, pleading, protesting, finally 
prophesying, with the optimism of her race, that " 'twas back ag'en the 
master 'd have him tomorra." 

But to-morrow and many morrows passed, and he did not come. 
Twice he wrote to his uncle short, manly letters, expressive of unfailing 
gratitude and affection, but touching not at all on the matter which 
divided them. For Leonard felt that if it were to do over, he must take 
the same course. 

A note to Ellen had elicited a tear-blotted reply, in which she 
jumped from censure at the course he had taken to bemoaning the fact 
that he had no one to look after him now. Leonard put the letter in 
his breast pocket, smiling, with moist eyes. 

"Dear old Ellen ! I suppose I will always be to her the little chap 
who used to sit on her knee for hours, listening to stories about 
diminutive men in cocked hats who sat on potato ridges and knew 
where untold treasure was hidden!" he thought with loyal affection. 

With renewed vigor he applied himself to his work. But Mr. Bur- 
bank was right — the parting with his uncle had left its mark on 
Leonard. In that first fierce storm of life some of the fresh green leaves 
of boyhood had been blown away, never to return ; but the roots of man- 
hood, gaining fiber and strength, struck down deep into the soil of 
eternal truth. One great question was forever decided for Leonard 
Newcomb. Personal gain, personal advancement, personal comfort at 
the cost of his fellow-men could never again make the slightest appeal 
to him. He had stamped out forever the ego which, in the arrogance 
of conscious power and strength of will, says, "Every man for himself !" 
He had placed the best of which he was capable — his strong young 
manhood — on the side of Him who said, "My life for every man!" 

But if the parting had left its mark on Len, what about the uncle 
who sat ajone in his costly house? For hours at a time he remained 
shut up in the library, staring before him with unseeing eyes, his mind 
busy with scenes which had been enacted in that room. Again he saw 
the little fair-haired lad, perched on his knee, building air castles about 
the future and always ending with, "When I'm a great, big man, 
Kebunk!" The old, childish substitute for "uncle" seemed to sound 
again in his ears. He saw the long-limbed boy, poring over his Latin 



100 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

grammar. He saw him, as he had seen him that last night, a man 
proclaiming his man's convictions. Every day seemed to bring some- 
thing which impressed on him more keenly the fact that Leonard was 
gone. Just now it was the illness of his chauffeur, which made it neces- 
sary for him to take the street car to and from his office. Although 
nervous about riding with a stranger, he had never been afraid to trust 
to Len's steady head and strong hand. In fact, the evening spin to the 
office for his uncle, in the luxuriously cushioned automobile, had been 
one of the young fellow's pleasurable duties for months past. 

It was with a fresh stab of loneliness that Mr. Newcomb stepped, 
one evening, from his office to the dingy street which led to the electric 
car. As he walked along he became aware of a towering figure ahead, 
lunging forward with uneven gait. He recognized it at once as that of 
one of his own workmen, a huge Swede, named Anderson, who had 
recently been discharged for drunkenness. Mr. Newcomb stood still 
with suspended breath. Perched on the man's shoulder sat a fair- 
haired child of two or three years. One chubby arm encircled her 
father's head, the fingers clutching his cap and hair in a frantic effort 
to retain the uncertain seat. The other hand held a stick of pink candy, 
upon which she sucked blissfully, unconscious of her peril. Every 
moment it seemed as if man and child must come crashing to the 
ground. More than once, when Mr. Newcomb closed his eyes for an 
instant with sickening certainty that the end had come, the big Swede 
regained his balance as though by a miracle. Then — a cry of horror 
burst from the lips of the wealthy brewer — Anderson's foot caught in 
the curbstone. With a lunge he pitched heavily forward out into the 
street. But before he could strike the ground, someone had darted from 
behind a passing vehicle and snatched the child from his arms. White 
and panting, Mr. Newcomb came up, as, with lightning rapidity, a 
crowd gathered. Across the body of the prostrate man he confronted 
his nephew, Leonard! 

At his full height stood the young man, a head and shoulders above 
the curious spectators ; the child, who now caught her breath in little 
soft hiccoughs of fear, held safe and unharmed against his breast. And 
in a flash his uncle realized that thus would he ever stand, while he 
had breath, against the influences which drag men down, thus would 
he defend with the last drop of blood in his body the helpless victims 
of those influences. In that long, intense look, Nathaniel Newcomb 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 101 

saw nothing in the eyes that met his own but grief — a grief which 
seemed to say: "Is our name to be connected, even indirectly, with 
such work as this?" The tall figure seemed to waver before his sight, 
and he saw again the fair-haired little lad, with eyes like those of the 
child who leaned against Leonard's shoulder. And he knew that the 
man before him kept his soul clean and pure, "unspotted from the 
world," and, because of that keeping, could claim the "knighthood to 
God" which he, Nathaniel Newcomb, had forfeited. 

With bent head, as though suddenly stricken with age, he passed 
down a side street. The day of reckoning had fully come. The battle 
which had raged within him for months was at an end. The thing 
which all along he had tried to smother seemed suddenly to have leaped 
at him with hideous force. "To his own master he standeth or falleth." 
Why did the words rush back on him now? Ah, because he, Nathaniel 
Newcomb, had fallen! — fallen from the high ideals he had once held. 
Because, thirty-five years before, he had disregarded the voice of his 
pilot. To the full he realized how that by that voice each man must 
steer, no matter what the course, unless he wants to make shipwreck 
of his life. All these years he had clung to the thing which his con- 
science disallowed, only to find it rising at last, like a specter, to 
separate him from the one being on earth whom he loved. 

Leonard leaned back in his corner of the day coach and, having 
the seat to himself, stretched his long limbs, cramped from five hours' 
enforced inaction. He was returning from a short business trip, upon 
which he had started with Mr. Hubbard the very morning after his 
rescue of Anderson's little girl. The junior partner insisted that he was 
none too young to learn the duties of inspector, in case it ever became 
necessary to send him on "the road." In reality, Sydney Hubbard's 
urgency in the matter was stimulated by a desire that Leonard, to 
whom he had taken a great liking, should have some change from the 
confinement and routine of office life, to which he had hitherto been 
so accustomed. 

The trip was one of keen interest and pleasure to young New- 
comb, coming after months of loneliness and hard work. Looking back 
on the time since he left his uncle's house, it seemed as though every 
step had been hewn out of solid rock, but the hewing had developed 
his moral muscle and given him an exhilarating feeling of strength and 
endurance. He had followed, fearlessly, one "point of contact with 



102 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

God" — the voice of conscience — and it had led him out into fields of 
experience of which he had only vaguely dreamed. He began to realize 
that some point of contact with Eternal Truth exists in the life of every 
man and woman. That to neglect it is to shut the door on all larger 
vision. To follow it leads inevitably to a knowledge of Him who was 
Truth — to that most sublime of all confessions, "My Lord and my 
God !" And in the past week he knew that a friendship had been forged 
which would enrich his whole life. Sydney Hubbard, although fifteen 
years his senior, was a man of abounding vitality, strong and purposeful. 
Together they had visited all kinds of insurance "risks," from isolated 
farmhouses to* city factories, indulging in many a hearty laugh over 
their experiences. Leonard was now returning home while Mr. Hub- 
bard took a few days' holiday. 

As the train drew up at a wayside station, he leaned from the 
window and motioned to a newsboy who was vociferously calling: 
"News, Extra-a! All about the fire!" 

With rather languid interest Leonard unfolded the sheet. Then 
his hands suddenly clutched its edges until they crumpled into shreds. 
The headline which met his eyes ran: "Fierce blaze destroys entire 
business block! Newcomb's Brewery a mass of smolderng ruins." 

Instinctively Leonard jumped to his feet. His uncle — to get to 
him! That was his first thought. His second came with a throb of 
thankfulness — he was scarcely thirty miles from home and could be 
with him in little over an hour. 

As he sank back into his seat, the name "Newcomb," coming from 
the section behind, where two men were sitting, reached him. 

"Yes, 'twas a bad fire," one of them was saying, "but Newcomb 
is sure to have been insured for every penny. You can't get ahead of 
him. Anyway, a man who can write his check for six figures can stand 
some loss !" 

"I don't know about the six figures," his companion replied. "Healy" 
— mentioning a well-known broker — "tells me that he's been speculating 
pretty heavily lately. Lost a cool fifty thousand in some land scheme ! 
His grip seems to have weakened. He has gone into anything that 
came along, as though he didn't care whether he sacrificed money or not. 
It doesn't take a man long to go through a pretty big sum at that rate." 

Leonard got up and moved to an empty seat in the forward part of 
the car. He felt sick at heart for his uncle. What if, at the end of all 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 103 

these years, everything had been swept away? His longing to reach him 
outsped the train and made the boy chafe miserably at delay. 

It was with a lump rising in his- throat from rushing memories 
that he sprang up the well-known flight of massive stone steps to his 
old home. Ellen O'Connor opened the door and fell back with upthrown 
hands at sight of him. 

"Mr. Len!" — joy and relief ran a race with tears in her voice — 
"an* is it yerself? Come inside, asthore! O, but 'tis glad I am to 
see ye !" 

"Where is he?" Leonard asked, breathlessly. 

Ellen jerked' a thumb over her shoulder toward the library door. 
But as Leonard strode toward it she caught him back until he stood 
under the full light of the hall. 

"Let me have another look at ye!" Tears were streaming, unre- 
strained, down her honest face. "Me little fair-haired boy that was ! 
An' you the splindid man, God bless ye ! Go in to the master, now, 
for 'tis aitin' his heart out for a sight of ye he's been these months past, 
an' him too proud to own it !" 

It might have been the figure of a much older man than his uncle 
which sat at the library table, the head resting on one hand, when 
Leonard entered the room. 

"Kebunk!" 

The familiar, old name slipped' from his lips as he sank on one knee 
and laid a strong, young arm across the bent shoulders. Mr. Newcomb 
shivered, but did not raise his head. 

"Don't take it so much to heart, Uncle Nat, don't — " Leonard was 
groping wildly after some fitting consolation. 

With a spasmodic movement his uncle freed himself and instinctively 
both rose to their feet. 

"Do you think I regret that?" Leonard started at sight of the 
haggard eyes that met his own. "It is the years — the years — the 
years that I have wasted !" 

He sank back into his chair while Leonard stood helplessly by. 
The sight of this grief was terrible to him. 

"Wasted?" His uncle's voice was like a wail. "God help me! 
If that were all, I could bear it and take my punishment." 

Leonard drew up a chair and sat with one hand resting on his 
knee. After a while the older man laid his own upon it, and for some 



104 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

time they remained thus in silence. Then Mr. Newcomb withdrew his 
own and took from an inside pocket a note-book which Len recognized 
as his. 

"I found this after you had gone," his uncle said in a low voice, 
"and I found these," turning to the lines Leonard had copied, "with 
the date written below. My boy" — he laid the open book on the table 
and faced his nephew — "thank God — thank God, with your latest 
breath, that you obeyed the voice of your 'pilot' before you had made 
shipwreck of your life! I stand to-day where I stood thirty-five years 
ago, as far as this world's goods are concerned," he went on, in a 
trembling voice, "and in that space of time I have measured to the 
full that it profits a man nothing to gain the whole world and lose 
himself!" 

"Have — have you nothing left, uncle?" Leonard asked hesitatingly. 

"Only what will pay my outstanding obligations." 

"But — the insurance?" 

"The old policy lapsed two days ago. I meant to turn what business 
I controlled in that way over to your firm — if they would take it." 

Leonard laid one hand quickly on the elder man's arm. He knew 
the motive which underlay this thought. But his heart had given a 
great bound. • Here was his opportunity, the opportunity he had always 
craved, of showing his love and gratitude to the uncle who had done 
so much for him ! 

"It is my turn now, Uncle Nat!" he cried, eagerly. "I can earn 
enough to keep the wolf from the door of both of us. My salary has 
been raised and " 

But his uncle's enforced composure had suddenly given away. 
Tears were coursing slowly down his cheeks as he looked with starved 
eyes into the young face at his side. 

"I care for nothing — as long as you are spared to me," he said, 
chokingly. "It is more than I deserve ! But I need not be a burden 
to you, my boy. I have some little property, enough to keep me, which 
came to me from my mother. Only — stay with me, Len, always!" 

In silence their hands met with a close clasp. A question trembled 
on Leonard's lips which they hardly dared to frame. As though in 
answer to his thought, his uncle said: "I need scarcely say that one 
stone of the — the brewery" — he brought the word out with a wince — 
"will never be rebuilt. I am going to give the land to the city for a 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 105 

square — a breathing space for some of the people who live around 
there." 

"Hurrah !" Leonard caught up the old note-book and tossing it 
into the air, caught it again. "Even if mast, cable, anchor and soldiers 
are gone, 'Yet lives our pilot still*" I Uncle, it is worth everything — all 
the long months of loneliness and separation that we have both been 
through — to hear you say that !" 

In a diminutive garden attached to a small suburban cottage, a 
young man, minus hat and coat, worked vigorously spading up the 
soft earth into ridges, which he fondly hoped would, in due time, yield 
a flourishing crop of vegetables. Stopping to wipe his moist brow, he 
threw a bright glance of inquiry at an elderly man who sat watching 
his labors. 

"How's that, Uncle Nat! That ridge look straight to you?" 

Mr. Newcomb drew one hand across his eyes. In truth, he had seen 
little of the embryo garden, so occupied had he been with the young 
gardener's splendid muscles as he swung his spade. 

"I think it is straight — it looks so to me," he said, stooping hastily 
to hide the emotion which sometimes overcame him when he looked 
at Leonard. 

"What do you think, Ellen?" The young man turned to a pleasant- 
faced woman who was taking some spotless clothes from the line. 

Ellen O'Connor regarded the operations with pursed-up lips, her 
head held at a critical angle. 

"Sure, Mr. Len, a ram's horn is a fool to it!" she announced, 
solemnly, with arms akimbo. 

Leonard, dropping his spade, made a boyish dash at her, before 
which Ellen, snatching up her basket of linen, beat a panting retreat 
into the house. 

As darkness fell, uncle and nephew strolled, arm in arm, round 
their little domain. When, at last, their steps turned to the house, 
Nathaniel Newcomb laid one hand on the young man's arm. 

"Len," he said, huskily, "the man who obeys his "pilot's' voice, 
promptly and unswervingly, as you did, not alone saves his own life 
from shipwreck — but — he may help some struggling craft — which has 
disregarded orders — to reach harbor — at last." — Mary L. Cummings 
in Classmate. 



106 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

AT THE STROKE OF NINE. 

It was a pretty, white cottage, on a broad, green lawn, with a stone 
walk leading to the gate. By the door a rose climbed over the wall, and 
the gentle north wind scattered the white petals like snow on the 
ground. And the perfume from those flowers floated up, rich and sweet, 
like the breath of incense, burning in the temple of old. 

A woman, whose hair was just touched with gray, stood in the door- 
way, and a tall, handsome young man lingered at the gate. 

"Good-bye," the woman was saying, "be sure to stop at the hotel 
with Fred Gilvan. I am sure he will keep you out of mischief. Be a 
good boy, and remember every night and morning at 9 o'clock I will 
pray for you." 

"Good-bye," he said, as he closed the gate, "good-bye." 

He passed down the street in all the beauty of his young manhood, 
with his fine square shoulders straight and his proud head erect. 

>jj :}: 5fc ^ ^ 

Night in the great city, with its revel of sin and crime. It was the 
same old story; it need not be repeated, how Paul Durgin was tempted 
and amid the jeers of his companions fell ; home, mother and every- 
thing were forgotten. 

As he staggered down the street, he met Fred Gilvan. "Paul," said 
Fred, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder, "what does this mean?" 

"Oh, I've been on a little jaunt," replied Paul, uneasily. 

"Paul, do you realize how far you have fallen to-night, have you 
forgotten the teachings of your mother?" 

There was no reply, and Fred continued, "Do you realize that 
to-night you have taken the first step on the downward road; that you 
have forged the first link in your chain of destruction, that you are lost 
unless " 

The sentence was never finished, for Paul turned fiercely upon him. 

"See here," he said hotly, "you hush; I'm not going to listen to 
your eternal preaching, I'll do as I please, and I won't take anything 
off of you, do you understand?" His voice rose and his eyes glowed 
with a strange light. 

He was usually slow to anger, but whiskey had fired his brain and 
he was mad. "Yes," replied the low voice of his friend, "I understand, 
but Oh, Paul ! I can't see you go to destruction without trying to save 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 107 

you; we have always been such good friends, and it breaks my heart 
to see " 

Here, without a word of warning, Paul raised his arm and struck 
him a blow on the head. 

There was no moan or outcry, as his gentle, noble, trusting friend 
fell to the ground. 

Paul stood still, looking at the prostrate form at his feet; then 
looking fearfully around, he knelt down and 1 had his hand over his 
friend's heart — it was still. His dear old playmate, chum, and friend 
was beyond recall. 

The moonbeams fell directly on the white, still face, with its high, 
white forehead and clustering hair. 

He knelt there, gazing into that quiet face, eagerly watching for 
some sign of life, but he watched in vain. 

As the truth slowly dawned upon him, he covered his face with his 
hands and moaned aloud: 

"He is dead," he said slowly, "dead, and I killed him, but God 
knows I didn't mean to — I loved him, Oh, Fred!" 

He took his hands from his face and looked at them eagerly. They 
were smooth and white, but he shook his head. "They are covered with 
blood," he said with a shudder, "but I was mad with drink, I never was 
drunk before, but now I am a murderer." 

He stretched out his hands to the skies, and just then the clock 
in the tower chimed out the hour — 1, 2, 3 — 7, 8, 9. "Nine o'clock," he 
moaned, "Oh, mother." 

The large court room was crowded with people to hear the ver- 
dict, "Ninety-nine years of penal servitude." 

The judge asked the prisoner if he had anything to say, and in a 
trembling voice he said, "Your Honor, I would like to say a few words 
before I am taken away forever from my fellow-men." . 

"In memory I can see a little white school-house, with its broad 
playground shaded by rows of leafy maples. 

"I see the children as they play their games at recess, and coming 
home, I see two little boys, side by side, with their lunch baskets; 
perhaps eating an apple or a piece of cake, each one dividing with the 
other. 

"I see them in the sweet summer-time wading in the old mill 



108 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

stream, or laying on the grassy bank watching the fish. I see them 
as they grow to manhood and enter college ; then again I see them 
standing side by side on the battlefield' in their suits of blue. 

"But these sweet visions fade, and another one appears. 

"I see one of them going the downward path; I see him as he 
staggers down the street, and I see the other one with his high-born, 
pure face, pleading with the drunken one to reform ; I hear his kind voice 
as he pleads, but pleads in vain. 

"And then the drunken one raises his hand and strikes his friend 
to the ground. I see him as he lies still and motionless in the moon- 
light. 

"Then I see a dark, gloomy prison, surrounded by its high walls, 
and in that prison I see the one who committed the crime, serving his 
life sentence. 

"I see him toiling day by day, with never a hope of release, shut 
in from the busy outside world, never again to wander free, never 
again to associate with the friends and companions of former years, but 
there, in that gloomy prison, to toil till life shall end, then be buried 
in a potter's field and be forgotten by all who once knew and loved him. 

"Gentlemen of the jury, I was drunk only once, but it was enough. 
I have finished." 

He covered his face with his hands, as if to shut out the light, and 
sank into his chair. 

As they led him from the room, the judge's wife (a kind-hearted 
woman who had a son), placed a bouquet of roses in his shackled hands. 

"Oh !" he exclaimed, burying his face in the fragrant petals, "how 
sweet, they are like the ones mother used to grow. I shall never pick 
them again." 

And like the knell of a death-bell, the clock in the tower tolled the 
hour. Nine o'clock. — Ola D. Grant in Home Defender. 

TOM'S TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 

It was' a bright autumn morning. The fall term of St. Rudolph's 
School had begun on Wednesday; now it was Saturday, and the boys 
had a long holiday before them. Out on the playground, Tom Haddon 
— a new boy who had only arrived the night before — was standing by 
himself, and looking about with the curious but sober eyes of a boy 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 109 

who felt as if he were in a new world, and who was as yet extremely 
doubtful as to his chances for happiness in that world. 

"Hello, Tom Haddon; is that you?" some one called suddenly. 

Tom's gloomy face brightened, and he turned eagerly toward a 
group of boys near him, who were talking and laughing in the manner 
so expressive at one of good comradeship and much self-importance, 
that always marks the old boys at the beginning of a new school year. 
Tom knew several of those boys ; he had met them during the summer 
vacation, and their greetings now were so hearty that in a few minutes 
he quite forgot that he was that forlorn creature, a strange boy in a 
large school; and he gladly accepted an invitaion to join his new friends 
in a tramp over the hills to a village some miles from St. Rudolph's. 
In high spirits they set out; the hills were crossed, and early in the 
afternoon they reached the village. 

"Now for Cruger's," shouted several of the boys, and they led the 
way to a saloon and boisterously pushed open the door. 

Tom held back. He did not like the appearance of the place. 

"What are we going in here for?" he asked. 

"For a spread, of course," one of the boys explained. "They cook 
great dinners here; come on." 

Tom was quite ready for a "spread," and willingly followed the 
boys into a little back room where the saloon proprietor assured them 
they would be undisturbed. Their dinner of oysters and beefsteak was 
soon served, and thoroughly enjoyed by the hungry boys ; then a dessert 
of fruit, cake, and pie was ordered, and when the last crumb of the last 
cake had disappeared and the waiter had removed the dishes from the 
table, Frank Jones, their acknowledged leader, said gayly: "Now, 
fellows, before we go, we'll have a loving cup." 

"A loving cup; what's that?" Tom asked of the boy nearest him. 

"You needn't be afraid of it, it won't hurt you ; it's only beer," the 
boy answered. 

"Beer? I don't want any," and Tom pushed back his chair. 

"Sit still ; you can't go yet," Frank Jones said, and at that moment 
the waiter returned with the black beer bottles. 

Amid the shouts of laughter the corks drawn, and then one of the 

boys started the song: 

"And here's a hand, my trusty friend, 
And gie's a hand of thine, 
And we'll take a right guid willie-wought " 



110 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"No, no," Tom Haddon shouted, "this is wrong. I will not drink. 
Let me go." 

The boys stopped singing. "So you are a kill-sport, are you?" one 
of them said scornfully. 

"No, no," Tom cried-, "but I can't drink. Let me go." 

The beer was foaming in their glasses, but the boys left it un- 
touched while they stared at Tom. 

"You are a fool, Tom," one of them said. "What harm can a glass 
of beer do you?" 

"Come, Tom," coaxed another, "don't make a row about nothing; 
be a man and drink your beer." 

"I won't," Tom said sharply. "Let me go." 

"We aren't quite ready to let you go yet," Frank Jones said, 
angrily. "You are a pretty fellow to kill sport in this way; and now 
if you won't drink, you shall give us a temperance lecture. If it is 
wrong to drink beer, you shall tell us why. Come, boys, pay attention. 
You will now listen to an address on temperance from the eloquent 
orator, Thomas Haddon." 

"Hear! Hear!" shouted the boys, and then one of them called: 
"Stand him up on the table." 

"Up with you," cried two of the strongest boys, as they seized 
Tom, and unable to resist, he was forced to mount the table. With a 
crimson face and something suspiciously like tears in his eyes, he faced 
his tormentors. 

"I can't, boys," he faltered. "I can't talk to you." 

"More shame to you, then, for spoiling our fun," growled one of 
the boys. "Come, you needn't think we'll let you off. If you won't 
drink beer, you shall give us some good reason for not drinking it. 
That's only fair. Come, be quick and begin." 

"Boys," he said, in a clear voice, "I will tell you a story — a true 
story — a story that belongs to my own life." 

"All right," said Frank Jones, but something in Tom's face made 
the other boys watch him in silence. 

"Boys," Tom went on, in a tender, pathetic voice, "I knew a little 
boy once who had a beautiful home. He had a kind father and mother, 
and he loved them both so much that he could never tell which he 
loved best. Boys, that little boy's father had always been a good man; 
but once, when he wasn't well, the doctor ordered him to drink beer, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 111 

and he began to drink it, and " Tom's voice was thrilling in its 

emphasis now — "he soon began to drink stronger things; and there 
came a time when that little boy's home was so changed from the 
lovely place it once was, that it seemed as if a fiend must live there. 
That little boy heard his father rave and curse like a madman — and 
he was mad, for rum had made him so — and he saw — oh, boys, to his 
dying hour he will remember it — he saw his mother struck down by 
his drunken father's hand." 

There was a dead silence in that little room. The beer had ceased 
to foam, but not a boy had tasted it, or noticed it. 

"Boys," Tom's thrilling voice went on, "that little boy is a large 
boy now, and he is almost alone in the world, for his father and mother 
are both dead, and now he has no home. Do you wonder?" — and 
no boy who heard it, ever forgot the pathos of Tom's tone — "do you 
wonder, boys, that, standing by his mother's grave, that boy looked up 
to heaven, and' solemnly vowed never, while he lived, to touch or taste 
the drink that had made a madman of his father, ruined his home, and 
broke his mother's heart." 

Tom ceased, and for a moment not a boy stirred. 

"You will let me go now," he said, as he jumped down from his high 
place, and started for the door; and then with one impetuous rush, the 
boys gathered around him. 

"Tom," Frank Jones said, "you are a hero. Why, I think you are 
braver than a soldier. I am proud of you, and I would do just like 
you if I were in your place." The boy stopped 1 ; a new thought had come 
to him. He looked around on his companions. 

"Boys," he said earnestly, "it seems to me, that what I would do 
if I were in Tom's place, I had better do now in my own place." 

Perhaps the head master of St. Rudolph's was never in his long 
life more happily surprised than he was that evening, when six of his 
oldest and most influential boys called on him and asked to sign the 
temperance pledge. 

Years have passed since that evening, and to-day those boys are 
mature men and widely parted, but they have never forgotten Tom's 
story, and through all the trials and temptations of manhood, with 
God's help, they have kept their pledge. — Mary Hubbard Howell in The 
Evangelical Herald. 



112 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

THE SPECTRAL INN-KEEPER. 

On a raw, disagreeable afternoon in November, I discovered myself 
in the rather foolish act of journeying on foot (merely in search of 
amusement or to gratify a somewhat morbid curiosity), through a 
certain wild and almost uninhabited district of Maryland. With me, 
at that time, a pedestrian excursion of fifty or a hundred miles was a 
trifle; and, having some knight-errantry in my disposition, I was often 
gratified with adventures which a more discreet person would have 
been solicitous to avoid. Proceeding, therefore, in pretty good spirits, 
along a narrow road, through the dense pine woods, I availed myself 
of the perfect solitude of the place, and entertained myself by reciting 
choice passages from the Roman classics, being answered, at intervals, 
by echoes which certainly never spoke Latin before. Sometimes too, 
the driving autumnal winds whistled and hissed so lifelike among the 
tops of the spiry pines, that I paused and looked around, apprehensive 
that my peripatetic recitations were overheard by more auditors than I 
wished for. At length, while repeating a portion of Virgil's Lib. vi., 
with great fervor, methought I heard the words : 

"A Dutchman, I declare !" 

"That," thought I, coming to a full stop, "must be the drollest kind 
of an echo ; or, if it be the wind, I must say it speaks more intelligibly 
than ever I heard a breeze discourse before." 

"Come here, mister, and get something to drink. Can you fushtay 
that?" 

"Who are you, what are you, and where are you?" said I, in some 
trepidation. 

"Why, that's pretty good English, and yet I could have sworn you 
were speaking Dutch this minute." 

I now ascertained that the voice proceeded from a clump of chin- 
quapin bushes, and, approaching, a little nearer, I saw an elderly man, 
in rustic costume, sitting on the ground, with a plate containing some 
edibles in his lap, and a flask containing, as I doubt not, something 
drinkable, standing by his side. An ax lay near him, and a quantity of 
chips and branches of trees strewed about, showed him to be a wood- 
cutter. 

"What countryman are you?" said he. 

"A native of this very soil ; nothing else, I assure you," answered I. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 113 

"Well, mister, I don't think there's much good in a man that talks 
to himself, especially if he talks in a lingo that no Christian can under- 
stand. May be you're a fortune-teller?" 

"No, nothing of the kind. I felt lonesome, and was trying to amuse 
myself, that's all." 

"Ah! you're cunning. 'Talk to yourself, and talk to Old Scratch!' 
You've heard that old proverb? But come, whatever you are, take a 
pull at this before you go any further." 

"No; thank you. I seldom drink anything stronger than water." 

"Well, that looks suspicious, too; but I always try to put the best 
construction on everything. What can I do for you?" 

"How far to the nearest tavern?" 

"None this side of Choptank River, and that's five miles off, at least. 
Yes, there is one " 

"Well, one's enough at present. I'm easily accommodated." 

"Ay, but nobody lives there. The house has not been occupied for 
six years. It's haunted !" 

"Oh!" said I, smiling perhaps a little incredulously. 

"It is true, as sure as I live!" said the woodman, with something 
like a shudder. "I never had much notion of ghosts, but I guess 
seeing's believing!" 

"So you've seen a ghost there, eh?" I inquired. 

"Ay, just as plainly as I see you. I have seen it walking upstairs, 
before the windows, and stopping sometimes to look out." 

"Very natural. But what was it like?" 

"An old man, with a blue cloth cap and a green baize jacket." 

"Oh! then, you saw the ghosts of a blue cloth cap and a green 
baize jacket likewise?" 

"I saw just what I tell you, and hundreds of others have seen 
the same." 

"But why does this spirit choose to walk about in such unfashion- 
able attire?" asked I. 

"He can't rest in his grave," said the woodman, with a groan. 
"He's murdered his own brother in the bar-room of that very tavern. 
There is blood on the floor to this- day." 

"You have seen that?" 

"No; I never ventured inside of the building; but my wife went 



114 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

there to hunt for one of our little children when it was lost, and she 
saw it." 

"Well," said I, after a pause, "I must either pass the night at 
this haunted hotel or out of doors; and it strikes me that, on such an 
airy night as this, the hotel, with all its horrors, is to be preferred. 
Woodman, I forgive your suspicions ; but do you think I would venture 
on such a lodging-place if I hadn't a clear conscience?" 

"And why not? If you deal with Old Scratch, you are not afraid 
to meet with him, I suppose. But maybe I am too hard on you ; here, 
take this flask, you might want it. What time will you be back this 
way, if " 

"If I escape the horrors of this fearful night," replied I, guessing 
at his meaning. "I will be back within three days." 

"Well, I shall be cutting wood, hereabouts; you will see me and 
may return my flask; use what's in it, if you like. But I shall want to 
hear what happened to you." 

"Oh ! certainly, if I am permitted to tell." 

I took leave of my new acquaintance, having first accepted the 
flask (for I had no conscientious scruples at that time), and, not with- 
out some anxious feelings it must be acknowledged, I resumed my walk. 
The gloom and dreariness of the pine forest seemed to increase from 
that moment, for my thoughts began to be tinged with the supernatural ; 
and it is well known what effect the complextion of one's meditation has 
on external objects. By the time. I had arrived at the deserted inn, 
therefore, I was prepared to see a whole regiment of ghosts in the 
uniform of blue caps and green jackets. It is well enough to laugh 
at such fancies sometimes ; but who is entirely free from them in all 
circumstances? I had been traveling all day in a dreary and desolate 
region, my imagination had been rambling among poetical descriptions 
well calculated to excite my superstitious sensibilities. I had, without 
observing it at the time, been infected with the ghostly horrors of the 
wood-cutter, and now that I had arrived at the scene of spectral resort, 
I felt that, if there were any place in the world where ghosts might be 
supposed to congregate, this was the very spot. 

The old inn was completely imbedded in the forest; there was a 
small space in the rear which had been cleared, probably for a garden, 
but the intention had never been carried out, and the spot was thickly 
studded with the stumps of trees blackened by fire, in an ineffectual 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 115 

->■ — ■ 

attempt to burn them to the ground. They looked, in the very dim 
twilight, like so many elfish figures, in every fantastic attitude, welcom- 
ing my arrival. The inn itself was built of irregular gray stones, many 
of which had fallen from their places, causing frightful gaps and dis- 
figurations on the exterior surface of the walls. The glass of the win- 
dows had been entirely demolished, and the greater part of the sashes 
and window-frames had crumbled away and fallen to the ground, ming- 
ling with a mass of rubbish, consisting of stones, plaster, and decayed 
wood. Part of the sign still remained — the device was, or had been, 
a white horse; the post and frame which supported it were placed on 
the opposite side of the road. The sign itself, as it swung on its rusty 
staples, produced a sound that might have been mistaken for the shriek 
of a tortured ghost, or the cry of some human being in mortal agony. 
But the night was now down upon me, and the wind had become 
sufficiently piercing to make any shelter desirable ; therefore, I made 
my way, with some difficulty, through the rubbish and reached the 
door. It was not fastened in any way, yet it was opened with some 
difficulty, on account of its great weight and the very rusty condition 
of its hinges. I found myself in the bar-room, the scene of the murder. 
I stood on the floor, which I had been told, was incrusted with blood; 
but the room was too dark to admit of an examination, if I had been 
disposed to make one. I passed hurriedly through the apartment and 
ascended the stairs ; opening another door at the head of the staircase, 
I entered a room that was dimly lighted by a window in the rear of the 
building. A very young moon shed a feeble ray into this chamber, 
showing all the furniture it contained, namely, an old table and chair 
in one corner. Fatigued by my long walk, I threw myself into the chair, 
and gazed around to assure myself that I was the sole occupant of the 
premises. The moonlight was sufficient to satisfy me that I was alone. 
I felt relieved, and, opening my valise, I took out some portable articles 
of refection, prudently stored away for certain emergencies to which 
travelers are liable. I arranged my repast on the table, and finally pro- 
duced the wood-cutter's flask, which I held up to the moonbeam to ascer- 
tain the color, if possible, and thus 1 estimate the quality of the contents. 
At that moment, a deep groan, or rather a howl of anguish, invaded my 
ears. I looked toward the door which I had shut after me, and found it 
was now open! More than that, an indistinct figure appeared in the 
aperture. 



116 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

If, like Lord Nelson, I had "never known fear," I might have had 
the honor of an introduction to him at that moment; for, although it 
would be easy enough at this time to pretend that I received my 
spectral visitor (or rather my host, for I was really an intruder on his 
quarters), with the most intrepid cordiality, I will be honest enough 
to confess that my ruling passion, at that moment, was unmitigated 
terror. The figure advanced ; I sat like a sculptured image of Time with 
the hour-glass in his hand (supposing the hour-glass to be represented 
by the flask of Geneva), and I do not believe that fright left me enough 
control over my muscles to effect a wink, much less to move hand or 
foot in an attempt at resistance or escape. The phantom stood before 
me ; it extended a hand ;I was too much alarmed, at first, to guess what 
this gesture signified; but recovering myself a little, I understood that 
the ghost wished to obtain possession of the flask. I surrendered it 
promptly; but instead of raising the vessel to its lips, as I expected, the 
spectre, uttering a wild execration, dashed the bottle to pieces against 
the floor. 

The visionary being then turned and moved toward the door, it 
paused half-way, and faced me again. The faint moonbeam fell on the 
countenance; it was deadly pale, but seemed to express more sorrow 
than anger. I was encouraged ; it beckoned me to follow, and I obeyed. 
We descended the steps, I keeping at a very respectful distance, you 
may believe. The staircase ended in the bar-room, and there we stopped. 
My terrible guide retired to a dark corner, where he became invisible. 
I gazed steadfastly at the point where he disappeared; presently I 
observed a small blue flame, which gradually enlarged and became more 
ruddy, till I was enabled to see the spectre again. It now held in its 
hand a lighted lamp, stood before the lattice-work where the liquors had 
formerly been deposited, and, with a mournful but expressive gesture, 
invited me to approach. I drew near, and casting my eyes on the floor, 
in obedience to a direction from the spectral finger, I saw a dark stain 
upon the boards. 

"That is the blood of my brother !" 

When the wretched being had pronounced these words, in a tone 
that accorded well with his ghostly character, he wrung his hands and 
uttered a howl like that which had so much alarmed me in the room 
above. He then glided into the interior of the bar, and returned with 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 117 

a long knife, the rusty blade of which he displayed in the lamplight, as 
he said: 

"With this was the murder committed!" 

I had no inclination to make inquiries ; but, after a silence of some 
moments, interrupted only by another maniac howl, he proceeded: 

"Yes ; with this knife I murdered him, my young brother. He was 
only nineteen. He never wronged me. We kept this tavern in partner- 
ship ; I persuaded him to join me in the business, and I murdered him ; 
this is his blood. I encouraged him to drink ; that caused all the trouble. 
It was in a drunken quarrel that I killed him. We were both intoxicated ; 
he struck me, and I stabbed him with this knife. Do you believe that 
the dead can come back?" 

I answered as I believed — that such a thing was possible. 

"Then, why have I never seen him ? I, his murderer ! Oh ! how I 
wished to see him. I have prayed to see him; but he will not come. I 
have watched whole nights in this room. Sometimes, when the wind 
moans through the old building as it does now, I think I hear him, just 
as he moaned when he was dying." 

Turning to me suddenly, with an altered expression of countenance, 
he asked, "What brought you here?" 

"I was benighted on the road; and could find no other shelter." 

"You will not betray me?" 

Without knowing exactly what I promised, I answered that I 
would not. 

"I am supposed to be dead — drowned in the Choptank," said the 
fratricide. "The neighbors, when they happen to see me, take me for 
a spirit. I did try to drown, myself, soon after the murder was com- 
mitted ; but the pure water would not receive me into its bosom ; it 
threw me ashore, five miles below. I saw it was not my fate to die at 
that time. I was not permitted to go to my brother, so I returned to 
this place, hoping to see his ghost and beg forgiveness. An old friend 
who is acquainted with my secret, supplies me with bread 1 ; nothing but 
bread and water has entered these lips for the last three years. I have 
sworn to touch no other food during the remainder of my life. Oh ! 
that I had never touched any other." 

He seized me by the arm. I glanced apprehensively at the fatal 
instrument which he still held in his other hand; for the horrid deed 
he had penetrated, and the wildness of his present behavior, naturally 



118 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

awakened some anxiety for my personal safety; but another glance at 
the old man's grief-stricken countenance convinced me that there was 
nothing to dread. Gazing at me for a few moments in silence, he said 
at last: 

"Do you pity me?" 

"I do indeed, from my very soul," answered I. 

"Would you make some sacrifice to lessen my misery?" 

"I would; anything in reason." 

"Then give me the consolation of believing that I have induced one 
human being to abandon the use of that accursed beverage which I 
prevented you from taking this evening. Swear that you will never 
touch it again." 

"Most willingly," said I ; and then, with the impressive evidence of 
the horrors of intemperance before me, with the blood of one of its 
victims under my feet, and in the presence of a wretch who was even 
then suffering the unspeakable agonies it had inflicted, I made my first 
vow of total abstinence. Need I add, reader, that it has been religiously 
kept? Who could forget the solemn admonitions of such a scene, and 
under such circumstances? 

Soon after I stretched myself on a bench which remained in the 
bar-room, and would have slept ; but the exciting events of the evening, 
the mournful sound of the wind that rushed through the dismantled 
building, and especially the continued walking to and fro of the penitent 
criminal, his lamentations, self-reproaches, and cries of anguish, banished 
slumber from my uneasy couch. As soon as the morning dawned, I 
prepared for my day's journey, glad to escape from the contemplation of 
so much wretchedness. On taking leave of my unfortunate host, I 
endeavored to offer some consolation, but soon desisted, convinced that 
his was a sorrow which no human comforter could have alleviated. He 
wrung my hand as we parted, and exclaimed, "Remember your oath !" 

The benefits of the terrible lesson I had received that night were 
not confined to myself. A few days later, on my return through the 
pine forest, I encountered my friend, the wood-cutter. With a coun- 
tenance full of pallid expectation, he heard my narrative. I related ali 
the circumstances of the frightful interview in the upper chamber, dwelt 
with emphasis on the destruction of the flask of gin, told him I had 
been summoned to the scene of the murder, and repeated the confession 
there made; but I was careful not to reveal the secret which had been 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 119 

confided to my keeping. Of course, I was obliged to leave the wood- 
man under the impression that the being I had seen and conversed with 
was really a ghost. Finally, I gave my shivering auditor an account 
of the vow which I had been required to make; and then I paused, 
to observe the effect of the communication. He was evidently much 
troubled at this part of my story. I advised him to enter into a similar 
obligation, and he was easily persuaded to do so. 

He kept the pledge, as I subsequently found ; for, several years after, 
I saw this very man emerge from the hold of a wood-boat at Baltimore. 
He recognized me, and gave me to understand that things had gone 
prosperously with him since our last meeting. He was now the owner 
of several vessels, and was driving a lucrative business in the wood 
trade. All this good fortune he attributed to his temperance engagement 
in the pine forest. Observing that I smiled mysteriously, he proceeded 
to inform me that the whole secret was out. The dead body of the 
inn-keeper had been found at the door of his dreary habitation, and 
that circumstance had quieted the superstitious fears of the neighbor- 
hood, by convincing the people that the cause of their terror was sub- 
stantial, and not merely visionary. 

But, notwithstanding the woodman had become temperate under 
the influence of supernatural dread, he had sufficiently realized the 
blessings of sobriety to make him secure against any possibility of a 
relapse — a proof that superstition itself may occasionally effect some 
good purpose. — Tract by L. A. Wilmer. 

LIQUOR'S DEADLY WORK. 

One day Mr. M. Morrill's attention was called to a little, pale, thin- 
bootblack who had a bunch of bluebells in his buttonhole. The gen- 
tleman let the boy black his boots, then balancing a quarter on his 
finger, said: 

"Here is ten cents for the shine and fifteen cents for the flowers," 
pointing to the bluebells. The lad put his small hand over the flowers. 

"No, sir; I can't sell them; if I were starving I wouldn't sell a 
bluebell." 

"And why not, little man?" 

The lad looked at Mr. Morrill so piteously that he was almost sorry 
he had asked him. He put his hand on the boy's head, and said : 



120 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Excuse me for asking; you need not tell me unless you wish, and 
you can keep the quarter besides." 

"I like you and I'll tell you. Just a year ago this month, and it 
has been such a long year, I thought the bluebells never would come," 
and then he stopped and put his hand over his eyes, as if to shut 
out some horrible sight. Presently he took down his hand, and said 
abruptly : 

"My father was a drunkard. We once owned some property, I've 
heard mother say, but that was before I was born. We got so poor, 
mother had to go out and wash to get food for Bess and me. We 
lived in a little log house, a quarter of a mile from town. 

"One Friday morning there was only a plate of cornmeal and about 
two spoonfuls of molasses. 

"Mother baked the meal into bread, and told me to feed the baby 
when she awoke, and to keep a sharp lookout for father, while she 
was away washing that day. She kissed me at the door. 'Be a good 
boy, Willie, and take care of little sister/ she said. 

"Bessie slept a long time, and I passed the time sitting by her and 
going to the door to watch for father. When she woke up, she said, 
'Baby is so hungry; Willie get something to eat/ 'Get up, Bessie, and 
let me dress you, and then we will have some breakfast/ I had not 
eaten a mouthful, nor had mother before leaving home, and I was dread- 
ful hungry. She got up and I dressed, washed and combed her, and 
when we sat down to the table, Bessie just dropped her curly head right 
down on the table and sobbed out, 'O, Willie, I am so tired of cornbread 
and molasses ; I can't eat it ; I want some meat and butter/ 

" 'Don't cry, baby/ I said, stroking her curls, 'mother will bring 
home something to-night/ 

" 'But it is so long to wait/ 

" 'Try to eat/ I said, and I put a spoonful of molasses on her 
plate, and she did try, but she only swallowed a few mouthfuls and 
then left the table. I ate a small piece of dry bread; I thought she 
would eat the molasses, so I did not touch it. All day she kept saying 
she was hungry, but refused to eat. It was a long day to us both. 

"Father had come home, and it was nearly dark; we were both 
sitting on the doorstep. Bessie had laid her head against my arm and 
began to cry, 'I'm so hungry, Willie ; mother stays so late to-night/ 

" 'Don't cry, baby, mother will soon be home/ 'Of course she 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 121 

will!' exclaimed George Anderson; he lived a mile beyond us, and as 
he spoke, he tossed a bunch of bluebells into Bessie's lap. 

" 'Oh, how pretty !' she exclaimed, while the tears dropped from her 
sweet blue eyes on the pretty bluebells. 

" 'Come, Bessie,' I said, 'let me fasten them among your curls.' She 
stood upon the doorstep with her face toward the house. I stood behind 
her and tied the bluebells in her golden curls. I had just fastened the 
last one, when some one jerked me off the step. It was father ; he was 
almost crazy with drink. 

"He caught Bessie and said, 'You have been crying; what did 
Willie do to you?' 

"She was so white and scared that I thought she would faint. 
'Willie didn't do anything,' she gasped out. 

"Father let her go and grasped me; he commenced to shake me 
awful. 'You rascal, what did you do to Bessie? Tell me, or I'll shake 
the life out of you.' 

"He shook me so I could not answer. Then little Bessie caught 
him by the arm. 'Please, father, don't hurt Willie; I was so hungry 
it made me cry/ 

"He looked at the table and saw the bread and molasses. 'You 
little white-faced liar, you are not hungry; look at the table; there is 
plenty to eat, and good enough for such a brat as you,' and he shook 
her roughly. 

"She began to cry, and I tried to put my arms around her, but 
father pushed me away. 'If you can't eat anything, I can give you 
something to drink,' and started down the path that led to the pond. 

"Bessie hushed crying, but she looked awful scared. Til give you 
something to drink,' he said, when he reached the edge of the water, and 
I followed, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I was so frightened. 

"He waded in about knee deep, then took Bessie and put her little 
curly head down under the water. She threw up her little white hands 
and cried out, 'Oh, Willie, take baby !' just as the curly head went down. 

"I waded around father and tried with all my strength to raise her 
little head out of the water, but father held it down. I begged father 
to take her out, but he would not listen. She threw up her hands wildly, 
there was a gurgling sound, then all was still. It seemed hours to me, 
but father at last lifted up Bessie's white, dripping face. I called her 
name wildly, but her blue lips didn't move ; she was dead. 



122 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Father carried her and laid her down on the green grass. 'I guess 
she won't get hungry for awhile/ he said. 

"I was so stunned I never moved nor spoke, until I saw the blue- 
bells that I had twined in Bessie's hair, floating out on the water. I 
could not bear to see them drift away, so I waded out after them. The 
water was deep, and on I went. It was up to my arm-pits, now over my 
shoulder, still the bluebells were just beyond my reach, but I must have 
them. The water touched my chin, another step and I caught them, and 
just as I did I heard mother call: 'Willie! oh Willie! where are you?' 

"I looked for father. He was seated on the ground by Bessie. 
'Willie ! oh Willie !' came mother's voice again.' 

"I was out of the water now, but so weak I could scarcely stand. 
'Bessie! oh Bessie!' I called, 'Here, mother, at the pond.' 

"Father gave one mad leap into the water — he plunged in face 
down. I was so terrified I did not know what to do. I heard mother 
coming. I trembled so I could not walk, so I crawled up to Bessie, 
and took father's straw hat, put it over Bessie's dead face to keep 
mother from seeing it. 

"In a moment she came in sight. She saw I was dripping with 
water. 'Willie, Willie, what is the matter?' I could not speak. 

"She lifted the hat from Bessie's face. She stood for a moment 
as if turned to stone. 'Tell me how it happened, Willie ; tell me quick !' 
Then I found voice and told her everything. She heard me through 
without a word, but when I had finished, stood with clasped hands 
over Bessie and shrieked such unearthly cries that soon the neighbor- 
hood flocked to the spot. 

"Father had drowned himself, his body was taken from under the 
beautiful water and buried in the cemetery along side of Bessie. Mother 
was a raving maniac. I put the bluebells in a little box and hung them 
around my neck. After the funeral, I lay in the hospital, sick for 
weeks with brain fever, but when I came to myself, the box was still 
around my neck; here it is" — and he drew from his bosom a small box 
containing a few withered leaves. 

"They speak of sweet baby Bessie," he said, as he closed the box 
and slipped it back under his shirt bosom. 

Then he looked Mr. Morrill straight in the eyes, and said: 

"Please, mister, don't ever vote for whiskey. It killed my father 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 123 

and dear little baby Bessie, and it locked mother up in the madhouse. 
Please don't vote for rum." — Tract. 

THE DRIVER'S STORY. 

In a lonely spot far up on the hillside stands a farmhouse — a plain, 
unpainted building that bears the marks of many storms. The windows 
are boarded up. The door stands partly open, hanging on one hinge 
and creaking dismally in the wind. Everything in the place shows signs 
of neglect and decay. The picket fence surrounding the house has 
partly fallen, and the once well-kept garden, filled with old-fashioned 
flowers, is a mass of weeds and bushes. A short distance from the house, 
a tall oak tree spreads its gnarled branches heavenward. Under it are 
two mounds, marked only by two simple crosses. 

I asked my driver, a man whom I had hired to carry me across the 
country, how anyone could choose such a lonely resting place. He 
hesitated a moment, and then related the following story in a voice that 
trembled a little in spite of his visible efforts at self-control: 

"You ask about those two graves, and well you may wonder how 
ever they came to be in such a Godforsaken place. You see yonder 
farm house? Well, in that house a newly wed couple started house- 
keeping. With hearts beating high with youth and happiness they 
toiled to furnish it and make it comfortable, and even pretty, in a rude 
sort of way, for in those days people couldn't have the fancy fixin's that 
can almost be had for the askin' now in your big city stores. 

"Finally, to crown their happiness, a son was added to the family. 

"As the days and years rolled on, he developed into a beautiful boy, 
with fair complexion, blue eyes and wavy golden hair. As many fond, 
foolish parents do nowadays, they humored his every wish. He was a 
slender boy, who cared more for books than for outdoor sports. When 
he reached the age of sixteen, his parents decided he must have a college 
education, so his father gave up his only hired man and cheerfully took 
up his double burden of labor, aided by the mother, whose hair was 
prematurely gray with constant work and care. 

"One year, two years, three years of increasing toil and sacrifice 
went by at the cottage on the hill. Every thought, every heartbeat was 
for the son, and often, in the evening, when the long day's work was 
done, the couple would sit hand in hand and talk of the happy days 



124 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

when their son would be at home, when they could rest on his loving 
support. 

"Four years, five years, and now the day was approaching when he 
was to be graduated. They had saved and sacrificed that they might 
be able to see him graduate. The day before the college exercises were 
held, they started for the city, picturing their son's surprise and delight 
at seeing them, the mother in a flutter of pride and joy, looking almost 
pretty in spite of bent form and old-fashioned gown; the father, his 
heart beating high with happiness that his son had reached the top of 
the ladder at last. 

"Arriving in the evening, they walked up through the streets 
toward the college. Just as they passed a brightly-lighted saloon the 
door burst open and out came a crowd of drunken college boys. One 
jostled roughly against the other, and the foremost was tripped and 
staggered into the street, falling in front of an approaching car. In an 
instant it was over; the crushed, mangled form lay motionless. The 
couple rushed with the crowd to the scene, when the father shrieked, 
'My God! it's Louis!' and fell lifeless across the body of his boy. 

"The bodies were tenderly taken to the farm and buried under the 
oak tree. The mother is this day a raving maniac, in an insane asylum." 

The narrator paused, and, brushing his rough hand across his eyes, 
huskily added, "That man was my brother, that ruined home was my 
brother's, and that family my brother's family. Do you wonder, Miss, 
that I hate the accursed saloon with undying hatred?" 

I went on to X , where I delivered my lecture, but that man's 

story remains as vividly in my mind as on the day it was told me. O 
boys, shun the saloon! Use all your strength to fight back this evil. 
Then when the good pure manly boys reach manhood, then will the foul 
stain of intemperance be wiped from our country. — National Advocate. 

A SCRAP OF BROWN PAPER. 

Looking at the pretty farmhouse of the Reeds, you would have 
said that there could not be any trouble in such a delightful spot. 
It stood on a knoll. Not far away were several maples and tall pines. 
There was a pleasant piazza, and vines twined around it. Back of the 
house and on either side stretched a fine, fertile farm. In and out of 
the doors of this cottage frolicked all day long the three Reed boys. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 125 



Their names were DeWitt, James and Warren, and there were no 
brighter, merrier children to be found. 

Yet a terrible shadow hung over this beautiful home, and on a 
certain Thanksgiving morning, about twenty years ago, Mrs. Reed, as 
she moved about her neat kitchen, preparing the Thanksgiving dinner, 
was weeping. She did not mean that anybody should see how badly 
she felt; but suddenly DeWitt, who was ten years old and very observ- 
ing, came bursting in at the door. The mother wiped her eyes and 
tried to put on her usual look, but he had seen the tears. 

"What's the matter?" he cried, with a sharp pain in his voice. 

"Never mind, dear," she said, smiling. "Get the hammer, or what- 
ever it is that you want, and run out again. It is Thanksgiving Day — 
and we must think only of our mercies." 

"I saw you crying the other day, too," the boy went on. "It was in 
the arbor, when you were shelling the beans out there. You didn't 
know that I saw you, but I did. Say, mother," — lowering his voice — 
"is it — is it — father?" 

"You must not talk about it," she said, hurriedly. "There he comes 
now. You must laugh and play. He will not like it if you don't." 

Mr. Reed's heavy step sounded just outside the door, and the boy, 
after an instant's hesitation, ran away. Mr. Reed's voice was loud and 
tremulous and his face was red. It was easy to guess that he was a 
drunkard. Seeing him, anybody could understand his good wife's tears. 

DeWitt went slowly back to the barn, where he had been playing 
with his brother. He remembered when his father had been very dif- 
ferent, and when his mother had laughed and sung from morning to 
night. He thought of the loads of apples which he had helped his 
father to pick over and take to the cider-press; and of the barrels of 
cider which were growing "hard" and "strong" in the cellar. He thought 
of the great demijohn of whiskey which his father kept in a certain 
closet, and how he himself had liked to scrape the sugar from the 
bottom of the glass in which his father mixed his "sling." He remem- 
bered, too, how his mother had looked very white when she saw him, 
and whispered, "Please don't." 

There was so much going on all the time, and he had been so busy 
in school that he had not had time to think of all these things. Now he 
could see that his father was getting worse very fast — and it was 
making his mother cry ! It was no wonder that DeWitt looked sober as 



126 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

he opened the barn door. Of course the others noticed it at once. 

"What's up?" cried little Warren, jumping down from a great hay- 
mow almost upon DeWitt's head. Warren was only eight, but he was 
very thoughtful. "Is the mortgage going to be closed up, or whatever 
you call it?" 

"I wouldn't wonder," said DeWitt, gravely. 

James had been jumping on the hay, too; but presently they all 
stopped and sat down together, talking in low tones, and with a worried 
look on their faces. 

None of them fully understood what a mortgage was, but they knew 
that it was something dreadful, in their mother's opinion. They knew, 
too, that within a few years the Reed family had come to possess one, 
and that "interest" had to be paid on it. They knew that if this interest 
were not paid, they would sooner or later lose their pleasant home. 

Even little Warren dimly connected this chain of terrible facts with 
the right cause; for he put in briskly, while his brothers were talking. 
"Mother said not to drink the cider out of father's pitcher." 

As they talked the boys grew more and more sober. If they had not 
soon heard their father's voice calling them in to dinner, they mjght all 
have fallen to crying. 

That night, when their mother went upstairs with them at bedtime, 
they all knelt together and said their prayers. It had been her custom, 
when these were done, to undress Warren, while the other boys 
undressed themselves. Then she would lie down for a few moments 
beside each one, and talk softly with him about the events of the day. 

Something had kept her, during these talks, from speaking of any- 
thing which might seem to condemn her husband. It had been like a 
knife to her soul to see her beautiful boys drinking from the cider 
pitcher, and scraping with zest the sugar from their father's tumbler. 

"But if I forbid them, how can I enforce obedience?" she had said 
to herself. "I must not take any stand until I can hold it. And I must 
not 'nag' them constantly. If I do, my words will have no weight." 

So this wise mother had delayed, giving only an occasional word of 
counsel and reproof on the subject which most tried her soul. She 
prayed for help and guidance, and it came. 

To-night she saw that the boys acted strangely. They looked at 
each other meaningly. Several times they made disjointed remarks to 
each other which she could not understand. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 127 

At last, they were all in bed. She felt that her time had come. 
To-night she must speak. It had been the most trying day of her life. 
Her husband had lain, almost ever since dinner, in a drunken stupor 
upon the couch. She felt as though she could bear no more. She must 
speak plainly to her boys. They were young, but they could see that 
drink was a horrible evil. They ought to be strong enough to promise 
never to touch it. She could show them how no one became a drunkard 
all at once. The beginnings were small, and the habit grew slowly. Oh, 
if they would only promise never to begin ! 

Before she could speak a word, DeWitt said, "Is it time now, 
fellers?" 

"Yes !" they cried. 

And from under his pillow the dear little eldest brother produced a 
piece of coarse, torn brown wrapping paper, carefully, but not quite 
neatly, folded. 

"Read it, mother!" he commanded, joyously. 

Taking it to the lamp, she read, scrawled in a big, boyish hand, 
these words ; "Pledge : We ain't never going to drink no cider. DeWitt 
Reed. James Reed. Warren Reed. 8 cents." 

"You see," exclaimed James, "we thought we'd give you some 
Thanksgiving." 

Happy tears rolled down their mother's face, as she kissed and 
thanked them all. 

"But what does the '8 cents' mean?" she asked them. 

"Oh, if any one of us does drink cider, he has got to pay the others 
eight cents," laughed DeWitt. 

"Trouble after trouble came upon us," Mrs. Reed was in the habit 
of saying, in later times. 'We lost our pleasant home — and for years 
we scarcely knew from one day to another where we were to get our 
daily bread. But the joy of that happy Thanksgiving made all those 
sorrows light. For my boys kept their 'pledge,' and that rough, torn 
scrap of brown paper is the dearest thing that I own, and will be till 
I die." — Kate Upson Clark in The Ram's Horn. 

EXPERIENCE OF COL. S. E. HADLEY. ' gj 

I sat in a saloon in Harlem, a homeless, friendless, dying drunkard. 
I had pawned or sold everything that would bring a drink. I could not 



128 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

sleep unless I was dead drunk. I had not eaten for four days, and for 
four nights preceding I had suffered with delirium tremens from mid- 
night till morning. I had often said : "I will never be a tramp ; I will 
never be cornered; for, when that time comes, if it ever does, I will 
find a home in the bottom of the river." But the Lord so ordered it, 
that when the time did come, I was not able to walk one-quarter of the 
way to the river. As I sat there thinking, I seemed to feel some great 
and mighty presence. I did not know then what it was. I did learn 
afterward that it was Jesus, the sinner's friend. I walked up to the bar 
and pounded it with my fist till I made the glasses rattle. Those who 
stood by looked on with scornful curiosity. I said I would never take 
another drink, if I died in the streets; and I felt as though that would 
happen before morning. Something said, "If you want to keep this 
promise, go and have yourself locked up." I went to the nearest station 
house, a short distance away, and had myself locked up. 

I was placed in a narrow cell, and it seemed as though all the 
demons that could find room came in that place with me. This was 
not all the company I had either. No, praise the Lord ! that dear Spirit 
that came to me in the saloon was present, and said, "Pray!" I did 
pray ; and though I did not feel any great help, I kept on praying. As 
soon as I was able to leave my cell, I was taken to the police court, and 
remanded back to the cell. I was finally released, and found my way 
to my brother's house, where every care was given me. While I was 
lying in bed, the admonished spirit never left me, and when I arose the 
following Sabbath morning I felt that day would decide my fate. 

Many plans were turned over in my mind, but all were rejected; 
and towards evening it came into my head to go to Jerry McAuley's 
Mission. I went. The house was packed, and with great difficulty I 
made my way to the space near the platform. There I saw the apostle 
of the drunkard and the outcast — the man of God, Jerry McAuley. 
He arose, and amid deep silence, told his experience — that simple story 
that I have heard so many hundred times afterward, but which was 
ever new: "how he had been a 'thief,' an outcast, a drunkard, 'but I 
gave my heart to God, and he saved me from everything that's wicked 
and bad.' " There was a sincerity about this man and his testimony 
that carried conviction with it, and I found myself saying, "I wonder 
if God can save me?" I listened to the testimony of twenty-five or thirty 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 129 

persons, every one of whom had been saved from ruin, and I made up 
my mind that I would be saved or die right there. 

When the invitation was given, I knelt down with quite a crowd 
of drunkards. Never will I forget that scene ! How I wondered if I 
would be saved! if God would help me! I was a total stranger; but I 
felt I had sympathy, and it helped me. Jerry made the first prayer. I 
shall never forget it. He said : "Dear Saviour, won't you look down in 
pity on these poor souls? They need your help, Lord; they can't get 
along without it. Blessed Jesus, these poor sinners have got them- 
selves into a bad hole. Won't you help them out? Speak to them, 
Lord! do, for Jesus' sake — Amen!" Then Mrs. McAuley prayed fer- 
vently for us, and Jerry said: "Now, all keep on your knees and keep 
praying, while I ask these dear souls to pray for themselves." He spoke 
to one after another, as he placed his hand on their heads, saying, 
"Brother, you pray. Now, tell the Lord just what you want Him to do 
for you." How I trembled as he approached me ! Though I knelt down 
with the determination to give my heart to God, when it came to the 
very moment of grand decision, I felt like backing out. The devil knelt 
by my side and whispered in my ears crimes I had forgotten for months. 
"What are you going to do about such and such matters if you start 
to be a Christian to-night? Now you can't afford to make a mistake; 
had you not better think this matter over a while, and try to fix up some 
of the troubles you are in, and then start?" Oh, what a conflict was 
going on for my poor soul ! A blessed whisper said, "Come !" The 
devil said, "Be careful !" Jerry's hand was on my head. He said, 
"Brother, pray." I said, "Can't you pray for me?" Jerry said, "All the 
prayers in the world won't save you unless you pray for yourself." 
I halted but a moment, and then, with a breaking heart, I said, "Dear 
Jesus, can You help me?" Never with mortal tongue can I describe 
that moment. Although up to that moment my soul had been filled with 
indescribable gloom, I felt the glorious brightness of the noonday sun 
shine into my heart; I felt I was a free man. Oh, the precious feeling 
of safety, of freedom, of resting on Jesus ! I felt that Christ, with all 
His brightness and power, had come into my life ; that indeed old things 
had passed away, and all things- had become new. 

From that moment until now I have never wanted a drink of 
whiskey, and I have never seen money enough to make me take one. 
I promised God that night that if he would take away the appetite for 



130 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

strong drink, I would work for Him all my life. He has done His 
part, and I have been trying to do mine. — Way of Faith. 

ANTON VESTER'S REVENGE. 

"John, did you see this letter? It was brought here this afternoon 
while you were out," said the minister's wife to her husband, as he was 
going up-stairs to his study. 

The minister took the letter, and started to go on again, but at the 
sight of the address on the envelope he stopped and opened the letter 
where he was. He read it through, and then went in to the dining room 
where his wife had gone. 

"Mary, do you know what this letter is?" Then, without waiting 
for an answer, the minister went on : "Let me read it to you. I need 
your advice. 

"'Mr. John Glenning — My dear Pastor: I dread to tell you the 
news again which so often before has caused me anguish and you trouble 
and vexation But I cannot help coming to you once more. I do not 
know where else to go. Some one in town has been selling George 
liquor again. Last night he came home reeling! Is the law powerless 
to convict those who, contrary to the law of our state, sell the poison 
secretly? How long shall I pray and weep that my boy may be spared 
going the way of his brother? For the sake of the Father in heaven, 
Mr. Glenning, search out the guilty parties and bring them to justice ! 
This is my prayer and the prayer of many another heartbroken mother 
in this town. I do not sign my name. You know who I am, a mother 
praying day and night that her youngest boy may be spared from a 
drunkard's fate.' " 

The minister looked up from the letter, and his wife's face was full 
of sympathetic questions. 

"It is terrible, John, this great curse of intemperance. But what 
can you do in this case?" 

"I can try to find the man who is selling the liquor to George." 

"I don't see how. But what if you do find him?" 

"Then I will bring him to justice. We have a right to defend our 
homes and our church from such awful danger." 

"Do you think, John, it is your business as a minister to undertake 
this kind of work?" 



STORIED OF HELL'S COMMERCE 131 

"Mary, any kind of work is my business that will save life. If no 
one else in this town will get the evidence against this person who is 
selling intoxicants contrary to the law, then I will do it myself." 

The minister's wife was silent a moment. Then she said, "John, I 
have faith to believe you are right; but I cannot help feeling that you 
are about to undertake a very difficult and dangerous duty." 

"It is no more than I ought to perform. How else can I answer the 
appeal in this letter?" Mrs. Glenning did not reply. She looked forward 
with intense anxiety to the task her husband seemed resolved to under- 
take. She had great confidence in his ability, but she could not help 
feeling that never in all his parish life had he faced any duty so serious. 

A week after this talk between them, the minister handed his wife 
the morning paper, and pointed silently to an article printed very con- 
spicuously on the local page. It was headed : 

"LIQUOR SELLER ARRESTED! 

On Charges Preferred to the County Attorney by Rev. John Glenning. 

The Case Will Come to Trial in the District Court in One Month." 

The article continued: 

"Last evening Rev. John Glenning filed a statement with the 
county attorney in which he charges Anton Vester with selling liquor 
in violation of the prohibitory laws of the state. He will appear against 
Vester as prosecuting witness at the time of the trial. We understand 
that the evidence is very conclusive." 

The minister's wife looked up from the reading, and her eyes were 
anxious and troubled. 

"John, you never told me about it. How did you succeed?" 

"I did not want to talk about it until I had actually done something. 
You know that is my way. Well, when I found that the police and the 
sheriff and the county attorney did not intend to do anything to close 
up this drinking place, I went myself and secured the evidence of three 
sales of liquor." 

"How could you? Did not this man know you?" 

"No. He is a comparative stranger. I stood in one end of his place 
while the purchases were being made. The open violation of the law 
is very bold. There is no doubt of the fact that he is guilty." 

"Do you think he will be convicted? Is it necessary for you to 
appear against him ?" 



132 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Yes, I must appear as prosecuting witness. The crisis is a serious 
one in our town. If some one does not try to prevent the sale of liquor 
here, our young men will be in danger of being lost, body and soul. You 
would not have me a coward, Mary?" 

"No, no ! But, John, I am afraid of what may happen to you. This 
is a terrible enemy to fight, this liquor enemy." 

"I know it, and I believe, Mary, that I have counted the cost. I 
must go forward now that I have begun. The church people and all 
the best citizens in town are in sympathy with my efforts. That is a 
great help. Don't worry over the result. We are in the hands of God." 

For answer the minister's wife put her hand in that of her husband, 
and pledged him her enthusiastic and loving confidence in the battle 
he had begun. 

The month went by, and the day of the trial drew near. But before 
that date the minister received an anonymous letter, a knowledge of 
which he carefully kept from his wife until long after the events that 
followed. This letter read: 

"Rev. Glenning — Sir : If you go on with this case of Anton Vester, 
you will have reason to be sorry for it. Better take warning and have 
the case dismissed before anything happens to you or yours." 

The minister kept this letter a secret from his wife so as not to add 
to her anxiety. Nevertheless, he felt a little nervous, for it was the first 
anonymous letter he had ever received. 

When the day of trial came, the court room was crowded. The 
liquor men came in a body. The minister's parish was well represented. 
It was the first time a minister had appeared as prosecuting witness. 

The evidence was plain and conclusive. On the day alleged, the 
minister had gone into the place of Anton Vester, the accused, and had 
there seen him sell, contrary to the state laws, three bottles of whiskey. 
The closest cross-examination failed to shake the evidence in the least, 
and the jury, after being out less than half an hour, returned a verdict 
of guilty. 

Throughout the trial the accused had sat with his wife and little 
girl close to the jury. The child was beautiful-faced, attractive and 
winsome. When her father was on the witness stand denying the 
charges against him, she climbed up into her mother's lap. When her 
father came down again, he held her. The minister could not restrain 
a feeling of pity as he looked at the family. Nothing but his sense of 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 133 

duty owed to that other mother whose boy was in danger of ruin, 
steadied his purpose as the trial proceeded. 

When the verdict was given by the foreman, the court-house was 
very still. As soon as the foreman ceased speaking, the accused and 
convicted man jumped to his feet, and, beside himself with rage, shook 
his fist in the minister's face. 

"I will have revenge ! If I go to jail, watch for yourself !" 

"Silence in court!" shouted the judge sternly. "Bailiff, take the 
prisoner in charge !" 

The greatest excitement prevailed for a short time. When quiet 
had been restored, the attorney for the defense moved for a new trial. 
The court overruled the motion, and at once proceeded to pronounce 
the sentence. 

"Prisoner at the bar, you stand committed, according to the law 
of the state, to the county jail for ninety days, and will pay a fine of 
three hundred dollars." 

The guilty man heard the sentence in silence. As he was being 
taken out of the court-room, he was heard to mutter, "I will have my 
revenge !" 

As the minister, surrounded by several of his parishioners, was 
leaving the court-room, the wife of the accused confronted him. For a 
moment it seemed as if she had meant to strike him. Her face grew 
deadly pale ; she seemed almost like a wild animal about to spring. Sud- 
denly she turned and went out rapidly, leading the child with her. 

The minister went home completely exhausted with the nervous 
tension of the trial and the scenes attending it. 

"Mary," he said that night, "this has been the severest experience 
of my whole life." 

"Do you still think you have acted wisely, John ?" His wife put the 
question more to satisfy herself than her husband. 

"I have no doubt whatev It was necessary. I have no question 
as to the perfect right of my action. I regret the suffering that will fall 
on the innocent as well as the guilty. But that is always the way with 
sin. It hurts so many others besides the sinner." 

% It was on the Sunday night succeeding the trial that the minister 
awoke about two o'clock in the morning with a nervous' start that he 
could not account for. Something was wrong somewnere. There was 
no noise in the house. Everything was very quiet. It was a winter 



134 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

night, frosty and still. He arose and dressed hurriedly, under the 
growing impression that in spite of the absence of any definite danger, 
something was wrong. His wife was frightened. 

"John! What is the matter? What are you going to do?" 

"Don't be frightened, Mary. I want to look around a little." 

He walked to the window looking out towards the small stable at 
the rear end of the yard, and drew up the curtain. As he did so, a 
strange light flashed up from behind the stable. It grew brighter as he 
looked. 

"I believe the stable is on fire ! I must run and see. Pump some 
water from the cistern, while I run out with a panful." 

The minister rushed out. It was only a little way. When he 
opened the stable door, a volume of smoke and flame poured out. He 
fought his way in, pouring the water upon the flames where they had 
begun to run up the side of the building. With great difficulty he suc- 
ceeded in dragging out of the stable his horse and cow. Then followed 
a fierce fight with the fire. His wife brought water. The neighbors 
came to the rescue. And at last the flames were put out, but not before 
the minister's hands were terribly burned. 

The neighbors whispered among themselves, "incendiary fire !" The 
minister said little. He was thinking of the man in the court-room and 
his words at the time he was convicted. He was also calling up the look 
on the woman's face as she left the court-room. 

Three months had gone, and it was the evening of the last day of 
Anton Vester's imprisonment. He was to be released at 4 o'clock that 
afternoon. 

On the same day Rev. John Glenning, still suffering from the effect 
of the terrible burning of his hands, had received a note signed by one 
of his parishioners : 

"Dear Pastor: I have learned to-day that Mrs. Vester, the wife of 
the man convicted for liquor selling, is suffering for want of fuel and 
clothing this severe weather. I am sure you will be glad and able to do 
something for the woman and her little girl. They live down near the 
old river bridge, the one that has been condemned as unsafe lately. The 
house is tne old brick house standing in the grove of cottonwoods. 
"Truly yours, CALVIN CLARK." 

This letter aroused no suspicion in the minister's mind. He decided 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 135 

to go at once. He left his house a little before five, carrying with him 
what he thought was necessary. 

It was a long, cold walk. The winter day was gone, and by the 
time he reached the river, he could just see the brick house in the grove. 
He walked rapidly along, and was just passing the end of the old bridge, 
when he was startled by a woman's cry coming from the direction of the 
bridge and out upon it. 

He put down his blanket and turned about, setting foot carefully 
on the old timbers of the dangerous bridge ; and, as he advanced, a 
woman came running towards him. She was the wife of Vester! 

She was shrieking: "My child! She has fallen into the river! 
O God! Save her!" 

In a second the minister understood. 

Coming across the old bridge in the dark, the child in some way had 
fallen through a dangerous place. 

The mother, who had sent her earlier in the day on an errand, had 
gone out on the bridge to meet her. No one supposed the bridge was 
rotten. She had seen the child fall, and turned screaming for help. 

The river was filled with great blocks of ice. Some of them were 
thirty feet across. A heavy fall of snow had covered them. Upon one 
of these blocks, cushioned with snow, the child had fallen, and the 
minister could see her dark form against the white. The current was 
sluggish and the ice was moving slowly. 

He ran off the bridge and down the bank, watching narrowly for an 
opportunity to leap on the moving mass. Near the shore a broad band 
of dark water whirled 1 . He ran on down farther, and at last, as a cake 
floated nearer, he made a spring and landed on it. 

Making his way with the utmost courage to the form of the child, 
he finally reached her and caught her up. She was unconscious. He 
made his way back cautiously. Great gaps yawned between the blocks 
— sure death for him. When within twenty feet from the bank, he 
jumped upon a block that broke under his weight. He went down into 
the icy water, but to his great joy he felt as the water closed over him, 
that his feet touched the ground. He struggled with the strength of a 
giant against the ice that crowded around him, and gradually forced 
his way to the bank. Dripping and exhausted he bore out of the river 
the child he had saved. 

The mother had followed this heroism with feelings of terror. There 



136 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

was no time now for anything but action. They wrapped the child in a 
shawl torn from the mother's shoulders, and at their best speed hurried 
to the brick house. 

The minister will never forget the scene as they pushed open the 
door. There stood Anton Vester, the husband, and with him three 
other men. 

"Well, where have you been?" were the words with which he 
greeted his wife. "Have you got that preacher?" Then at sight of 
Glenning and the bundle in his arms, the man stammered and stood 
silent. 

"Anson !" screamed his "wife, as she fell on her knees before him. 
"Our child! Mr. Glenning has saved her life! Think what we were 
about to do!" 

The man stood stupefied. Then, as the story was told him and he 
understood what had been done, he sat down and covered his face with 
his hands, while the other men ran out, obeying the minister's orders 
to get a doctor with all speed. 

When Rev. John Glenning recovered from a long illness caused by 
that night's exposure, the best friends he had in his parish were Anton 
Vester and his wife and child. It was not long after that he learned 
how his stable had been fired by a friend of Vester's, and the note sent 
was forged by another man to lure him to Vester's house that night, 
where it was the intention to beat him within an inch of his life. These 
things are forgotten by Rev. John Glenning as he goes into Anton 
Vester's home as his pastor. 

"My revenge was a failure, Mr. Glenning, God be praised for it. 
But your revenge was a success." 

"How is that?" inquires the minister, as he bends to kiss the sweet 
child he once saved. 

"You heaped coals of fire on my head." 

"That kind of revenge is very sweet," replies the Rev. John Glen- 
ning, smiling. And he goes his way through his parish, thanking God 
for victory over evil. — Rev. Charles M. Sheldon in The Christian En- 
deavor World. 

THE COST OF ONE DRINK. 

"In a recent visit to the Leavenworth, Kansas, Prison," said Mrs. 
Emma Molloy, "during my address on Sabbath morning, I observed a 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 137 

boy not more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, on the front seat, 
intently eyeing me. The look he gave me was so full of earnest longing, 
it spoke volumes to me. At the close of the service, I asked the warden 
for an interview with him, which he readily granted. As he approached 
me his face grew deathly pale; and as he grasped my hand he could not 
retain the fast-falling tears. Choking with emotion, he said : 

"I have been in this prison two years, and you are the first person 
that has called for me — the first woman who has spoken to me." 

" 'How is this, my child ? Have you no friends that love you ? 
Where is your mother?" 

"The great brown eyes, swimming with tears, were slowly uplifted 
to mine, and he replied : 

" 'My friends are all in Texas. My mother is an invalid 1 , and 
fearing that the knowledge of the terrible fall would kill her, I have 
kept my whereabouts a profound secret. For two' years I have borne 
my awful homesickness in silence for her sake/ 

"As he buried his face in his hands, and heartsick sobs burst from 
his trembling frame, it seemed to me I could see a panorama of the 
days and nights, the long weeks of homesick longing, that had dragged 
their weary length out over two years, so I ventured to ask : 

"'How much longer have you to stay?' 

" 'Three years/ was the reply, as the fair young head dropped lower, 
and the little hand trembled with suppressed emotion. 

"'How did it happen?' 

" 'Well,' he replied, 'it's a long story, but I'll make it short. I 
started out from home to try to do something for myself. Coming to 
Leavenworth, I found a cheap boarding-house, and one night I accepted 
an invitation from one of the young men to go into a drinking saloon. 
For the first time in my life I drank a glass of liquor ; it fired my brain ; 
there is a confused remembrance of the quarrel, somebody was stabbed, 
the bloody knife was found in my hand, I was indicted for assault with 
intent to kill.' 

"Five years for the thoughtless acceptance of a glass of liquor is 
surely illustrating the Scripture truth, that the 'way of the transgressor 
is hard !' I was holding the cold, trembling hand that had crept into 
mine. He earnestly tightened his grasp as, imploringly, he said: 

" 'O Mrs. Molloy, I want to ask a favor of you/ 

"At once I expected he was going to ask me to obtain a pardon, 



138 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and in an instant I measured the weight of public reproach that rests 
upon the victims of this legalized drink traffic. It is all right to legalize 
a man to craze the brains of our boys ; but not by any means to ask the 
state to pardon its victims. Interpreting my thought, he said: 

" 'I am not going to ask you to get me a pardon, but I want you to 
write to my mother and get a letter from her and send it to me. Don't 
for the world tell her where I am. Better not tell her anything about 
me. Just get a line from her, so I can look upon it! Oh, I am so 
homesick for my mother !' 

"The head of the boy dropped down into my lap, with a wailing sob. 
I laid my hand upon his head. I thought of my own boy, and for a few 
moments was silent, and let the outburst of sorrow have vent. Presently 
I said: 

" 'Murray, if I were your mother, and the odor of a thousand prisons 
was upon you, still you would be my boy. I should like to know where 
you were. Is it right to keep that mother in suspense? Do you suppose 
that there has ever been a day or night that she has not prayed for her 
wandering boy? No, Murray, I will only consent to write to your 
mother on consideration that you will permit me to write the whole 
truth, just as one mother can write to another/ 

"After some argument his consent was finally obtained, and a letter 
was hastily penned and sent on its way. A week or so elapsed, when 
the following letter was received from Texas : 

"'Dear sister in Christ: Your letter was this day received, and I 
hasten to thank you for your words of tender sympathy and for tidings 
of my boy — the first we have had in two years. When Murray left 
home, we thought it would not be long. As the months rolled on, the 
family had given him up for dead, but I felt sure God would give me 
back my boy. As I write from the couch of an invalid, my husband is 

in W , nursing another son, who is lying at the gates of death with 

typhoid fever. I could not wait for his return to write to Murray. I 
wrote and told him, if I could, how quickly I would go and pillow his 
head upon my breast, just as I did when he was a little child. My 
poor, dear boy — so generous, kind, and loving. What could he have 
done to deserve this punishment? You did not mention his crime, but 
say it was committed while under the influence of drink. I did not know 
he had ever tasted liquor. We raised six boys, and never knew one of 
them to be under the influence of drink. Oh, is there any place in this 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 139 

nation that is safe when our boys have left the home-fold? O God, my 
sorrow is greater than I can bear ! I cannot go to him, but, sister, I pray 
you to talk to him, and comfort him as you would have some mother 
talk to your boy, were he in his place. Tell him that when he is released, 
his place in the old home-nest and his mother's heart is awaiting him/ 

"Then followed the loving mother's words for Murray, in addition to 
those written. As I wept bitter tears over the words, so full of heart- 
break, I asked myself the question: 'How long will the nation continue 
to sanction the liquor traffic covenant with death and league with hell, 
to rob us of our boys ? Lovers of God and humanity, will you not work 
for the passage of laws that will save the boys and the agony of mothers 
like this?"— Selected by Way of Faith. 

THE COMPANY HE KEPT. 

The five o'clock afternoon train from Denver pulled into Fort 
Worth, Texas, a half hour late. The February sun was setting in billows 
of gold, and a stiff norther sweeping over the prairie city. A tall, dark 
young man, with disheveled black hair and haggard eyes, that told more 
forcibly than words, of an extended "spree* and attendant debaucheries, 
stepped upon the platform and gazed about him inquiringly. 

"Not a living soul that I know, as my name's Carroll Carlton !" he 
muttered, "and one dime my only earthly possession! If I telegraph 
my firm for another remittance, I'll be fired from the partnership, and if 
I pawn my overcoat I'll freeze in this norther. I'm starving, so here 
goes the dime for a sandwich, and I'll walk the streets until two, when an 
east-bound train goes out." 

He started toward' the lunch counter, and came face to face with a 
pale, hollow-cheeked boy of fifteen. 

"Why, it's Billy Barton ! How good to meet somebody from home !" 

The boy greeted the man joyfully, eagerly. 

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Carlton!" 

"How's your mother, and what are you doing out here, Billie?" 

"Haven't you heard? Mother's dead, and I'm going to San Antonio 
to live with Uncle Dave, father's brother. But, Mr. Carlton, I'm in so 
much trouble ! I didn't have but five dollars left after I'd paid for my 
ticket, and my pocket was picked between here and Memphis. I haven't 
had a bite to eat since yesterday noon, and I'm most starved! Can't 



140 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 



you — won't you lend me a dime? I'll pay it back, as soon as- 



"Gladly will I give you the dime, my boy. Here, take this and get a 
sandwich. Wish I was in better shape to help you more.' , 

"Maybe you need this dime yourself, Mr. Carlton." 

"Me? Oh, I'll soon be with friends and have all I can devour. Take 
the dime and welcome, my son." 

"Thank you, Mr. Carlton ! This will be bread on the waters, as 
mother used to say, and come back " The boyish voice broke. 

Carlton pressed the thin hand in sympathy, and pushed Billie toward 
the lunch counter. He turned down the shadowy street. He passed a 
brightly lighted saloon, and laughed harshly. 

"No chance for a high-ball here ! But as I tramp the streets to keep 
warm, maybe I'll meet some old acquaintance who hasn't struck hard 
luck. My, but I'm hungry." 

As he walked down the thoroughfare, he resolutely turned his face 
in an opposite direction when he passed a fruit stall or confectionery, 
which set forth their appetizing wares. From the rush of the business 
section, Carlton turned down a side street, and soon found himself on a 
quiet avenue. Arc lights were few, and pedestrians scattered. He reached 
a corner, and came face to face with an old, white-haired darkey, who 
raised his hat, bowed politely, then stood stock still and stared at Carroll 
with open mouth and round, wondering eyes. Without giving the old 
man a thought, Carlton strolled on to the next corner and paused under 
an arc light to decide what direction he would turn his aimless course. 
What was his surprise to find the old negro almost at his elbow! 

"What do you want?" asked the young man sharply. 

"Nothin', Boss. You jest look so much lack my young Mistis, that I 
loves to look at you." 

The tones were respectful, but Carlton, suspicious of foul play, 
turned to retrace his steps toward the business center. He reached 
another crossing and looked back. Only a few paces behind him hobbled 
the old man. 

"What are you following me for, you old rascal ?" 

" 'Scuse me, Boss, but you's so much lack my Mistis, dat's been dead 
these twenty years, dat I can't keep my eyes offen you." 

"See here, old man, you're after a tip or you're watching for a 
chance to rob me, and you may as well save yourself the trouble, for I 
haven't got a copper !" 



. STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 141 

"No, sir, Boss ! No, sir ! I ain't wantin' no tip, and I wouldn't tech 
a hair of yo' head to hurt it, Boss. But you's de livin' image of Miss 
Sallie Carroll, what married Marse Jim Carlton !" 

"Can this be Jerry Carroll?" 

"It sho' is, Boss. Marse Dave Carroll gin me and my wife, Lucy 
Ann, to Miss Sallie when she was married 1 , and we lived wid 'em till 
they died, eben atter freedom broke out." 

"My mother was Miss Sallie Carroll. I am her only son, Carroll 
Carlton. I remember you now, Jerry, although I haven't seen you since 
I was a boy." 

"Somethin' tole me you was Miss Sallie's boy ! Bless de Lawd for 
dis day! Whar is you stayin', Marse Carroll?" 

"Nowhere, Jerry ! I'm in hard luck. I've been out in the Panhandle 
on some legal business for our firm, and fell in with some sports, and — 
well, Jerry, you know the Carlton blood. When they get started they 
go to the end of the rope. I gave my last dime to a hungry boy, and 
I'm sinanded." 

"Come 'cross here to my house, Marse Carroll. When yo' paw 
died, he left me and Lucy Ann a little home. We sold it and come out 
here 'long of our chillun. But you 'members I was 'zorter on yo' paw's 
plantation, and I'se a preacher now, the pasture of a church here. We 
has prospered, and de chillen is married and gone, and jest me and Lucy 
Ann lives in de little house 'round here. Thank de Lawd for sendin' 
me a chance to help my young marse!" 

The old man led the way down a side street to a neat cottage, as 
clean within and without as mortal hands could scrub it. Lucy Ann 
was cooking supper, but stopped long enough to joyfully welcome 
"Marse Carroll," whom she had nursed as a baby. When the meal was 
ready, she spread the whitest of cloths upon a little table, and with 
ante-bellum deference served the well-prepared food as though the 
young man were a prince. Both Jerry and his wife stood behind Carl- 
ton's chair, and anticipated every want. He ate ravenously, and when 
the meal was over, Jerry led him into the front room and said: 

"You'se plum wo' out, Marse Carroll, and you must stay here until 
dat ten o'clock train in the mawnin'." 

The most tempting of breakfasts was served next morning, and 
Lucy Ann had taken the dishes to the kitchen, when Jerry opened a 
trunk and brought out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. 



142 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Dar's somethin' I want you to read me, Marse Carroll, 'fore you 
goes. Yo' maw, Miss Sallie, gin me dis Bible, and she marked some 
places she said for me to read when Satan was temptin' me too hard. 
My old eyes is too dim to see fine readin', and I ain't never been able 
to bring the glory outen dat book nohow, lack Miss Sallie." 

With reverent hand Carlton took the book. Jerry had turned to the 
sixth chapter of First Corinthians. The ninth and tenth verses were 
marked with a faint pencil bracket. 

"She done that ! Yo' maw, Marse Carroll. She read it to me when 
I had been on a drunk, lack Marse Jim. Chile, he was a mighty fine 
man, but he most broke Miss Sallie's heart a drinkin'. She gin me dis 
little Bible, and I 'members as well as if it was to-day, how she read 
dem verses. Read 'em, Marse Carlton!" 

Slowly he read : 

"Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of 

God? Be not deceived: thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor 

revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God." 

"Marse Carroll, what would Miss Sallie say if she knowed her little 
baby boy had growed up a drunkard, and was keepin' comp'ny 'long of 
thieves and gamblers and sich? De blood of de Carltons ain't so strong 
in you, Marse Carroll, but what de blood of de Lamb, dat Miss Sallie 
alius pinted to, can help you pull loose from sich company, and be a 
man! For Miss Sallie's sake, won't you cut loose from dat comp'ny, 
Marse Carroll?" 

Memories of childhood were tugging at Carroll Carlton's heart- 
strings. He wavered. If he made a promise, he was too true a Carlton 
to break it. But why deny himself the pleasure of gay friends? Why 
give up pleasures 

From the kitchen Lucy Ann's mellow, plaintive voice rose in the 
familiar words of a hymn : 

"When through the deep waters I call thee to go, 
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow. 
I'll strengthen thee, keep thee and cause thee to stand, 
Upheld by my mighty, omnipotent hand!" 

How often had he been rocked to sleep in his mother's arms with 
that old hymn as a lullaby. He arose, with a new light shining in his 
bloodshot eyes. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 143 

"1*11 be a man from this hour, Jerry! You've done more than 
minister to my hungry body, — youVe shown me where I stand!" 

"Bless de Lawd !" 

Carlton refused the proffered loan of money, but gratefully accepted 
the dainty lunch prepared by Lucy Ann. His thanks for hospitalities 
were somewhat confused, but fully understood by his humble friends. 

A few years later Honorable Carroll Carlton represented his home 
county in the state legislature. Not only was he considered the most 
brilliant member of that body, but he was a staunch advocate of pro- 
hibition, and his speech on this movement was by far the most forcible 
and convincing of the session. 

The papers were full of the young senator's praise and commenda- 
tion of his untiring zeal in the temperance cause. From all over the 
state came letters of congratulation and words of appreciation. Wives 
and mothers thanked him gratefully for aiding in a victory that was to 
protect weak and tempted husbands and sons from the curse of drink. 

But the commendation that gave Carlton the greatest satisfaction, 
was an ill-spelled, scrawling letter from an old negro preacher. It was 
this: 

"Dere Marse Carol : You is keepin good compny alrite. Miss Sallie 
would be proud of her man. Kepe in de rite way. Jerry." 

— Jennie M. Standifer in Union Signal. 

ROGER CARVILLE'S ATONEMENT. 
PART I. 

It was cold. A black frost, now in its third' week, held the country- 
side in its grip. Young and old, peasants and gentry, farmer and squire, 
all were content, the night of which this story opens, to sit clustered 
around the fire piling high the great Yule logs in the open chimney-piece. 

It was Christmas Eve. 

The tenants, one and all, on the Carville estate had reason to be con- 
tent and to celebrate the occasion with good cheer, song and story. 
For was not Sir Roger Carville a landlord just and generous ! All had 
shared in his Christmas bounty. 

In every humble cottage it had been his pleasure to see that there 
were blankets and fuel and plenty of good Christmas fare. 

No wonder that the villagers were grateful and vowed that theirs 



144 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

was the happiest community in all the countryside. "Not a home," they 
told each other, "but wherein happiness, joy and contentment reigns." 

And that is where these optimistic souls were mistaken. There was 
one house where anger and misery had usurped the throne of joyous 
festivity. In the great library of Carville Tower — that magnificent 
Elizabethan structure — the owner of this beautiful home and estate was 
pacing to and fro with stern white face and set lips. 

Sir Roger Carville was a fine specimen of the old English aristocracy. 
Upright, just, with a keen sense of his responsibilities as the lord of two 
manors, and holding five church livings at his disposal; the fourteenth 
baronet in direct succession from a noble line of honorable and honored 
ancestry, he was respected throughout D shire as a worthy represen- 
tative of the race from which he sprang. 

His sterling integrity, high sense of justice, and gentle, but direct 
and generous, Christian spirit, had not only made him respected and 
looked-up-to by his brother magistrates on the county bench, but 
honored by those whom he had to punish or judge. 

In short, a fine gentleman, "and the noblest gift of God — an honest 
man." And yet he who had held the honor of his race higher than his 
life, was to-night facing dishonor in its most bitter, heartbreaking and 
sordid form. As he paced the floor of the great library, from the oak- 
panelled walls of which hung pictures, by famous painters, of his 
ancestors, noble statesmen, soldiers and judges, or men, like himself, 
content to further the interests and happiness of the people of his estate, 
he glanced, from time to time, at the figure of a young man, doubled 
up and half hidden in the shadows of a great armchair. The youth, 
for he seemed little more, was in evening dress with shirt front crumpled 
and tie awry. His face, when a leaping flame from the wood fire 
illumined it, was haggard and drawn; around the mouth and under the 
eyes were thin, hard lines of dissipation and despair. The clean-cut, 
handsome features, with the strong chin, were startlingly like those of 
the elder man; and, but for a suggestion of weakness about the well- 
shaped mouth, one would have asserted that their characters were of the 
same quality and texture. "Roger," said the elder man, "when the 
Almighty took from me the noble woman whose life was a sacrifice 
to your birth, I thought that I had experienced the deepest sorrow 
that could ever enter my life." He turned his eyes, as he spoke, to the 
picture of a sweet-faced girl occupying the space above the great mantle- 





'In the great library of Carville Tower." 

Courtesy "The War Cry.' 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 145 

piece. "But to-night I know that I did not, on that sad, never-to-be- 
forgotten day, taste the cup of bitterness and grief to its dregs. It had 
been left for you to teach me that it was for her good that she died and 
for my ill and yours that you lived." 

A groan escaped the young man. "Father," he whispered, "have 

pity." 

"Pity?" replied the other, "what pity have you shown me or the 
poor girl who, according to your own statement, you have driven to 
seek protection and support in a world of strangers? What pity or 
thought for the name you bear did you show when you forged my 
name to paper involving thousands of pounds? What pity had you 
for a single soul during the past three years of dissipation, debauchery 
and sin? None! I paid your debts time and again. I have prayed 
for your reformation with tears, and agony of soul. I have borne with 
you to the uttermost of my forbearance; now go — go, and never let me 

see you or hear from you again, unless ." The old man's voice 

faltered a moment and then grew strong — "unless you prove yourself 
worthy, unless you do something to once again restore my confidence 
and pride in you." 

The figure by the fire gave no sign of comprehension other than an 
involuntary shudder which seemed to pass over him like a cold breath. 

"Here," continued Sir Roger, "here are two hundred pounds in 

Bank of England notes ; take them and go. Go and " the voice was 

low and stern — "sin no more." 

Silently the young man arose, his face white and strained, but in his 
eyes gleamed the light of resolve. With unsteady voice he spoke: 
"Father, I can't take the money; it — it would be a wrong start. Keep it 
and give it to her whom I have wronged. Search for her, and — and if 
you find her, say that I have gone to — to make good. Good-bye, sir." 
He held out his hand to his father, who, turning from him, said : "When 
you are worthy." 

The younger man stumbled, rather than walked, from the room, and 
mechanically received his overcoat from the half-scared-looking butler, 
passed out into the night. 

The crisp, cold air struck his heated brow with a cooling caress, 
steadying the shaken nerves and bracing him as a tonic. 

Half way down the driveway, lined with a noble avenue of trees, 
he turned and looked back at the home of his childhood, the grand old 



146 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

mansion which had sheltered so many of his honored ancestors. Silent 
and majestic it appeared, bathed in the soft rays of the full moon. He 
could see the lights in the windows of the room he had just left. In the 
moonlight he could discern another window, that of his bedroom, where, 
as a little child, and later, as a happy schoolboy home for the holidays, 
he had slept the sleep of the innocent and undefiled. 

Oh, how the memories of those days, now gone for ever, burned his 
mind and soul. He could see in the pages of the past the old dad's 
proud and happy face as he welcomed him on his return home for 
those same holidays. Never once had the dear old "guv'nor" failed to 
meet him at the little country station; and always was he accorded the 
privilege of taking the reins and driving the pair of high-stepping bays 
back to the Towers, where the servants were wont to gather in the 
great entrance hall to bid him welcome with smiling faces and respectful 
greeting. 

And later, when his time came to leave Rugby, and to enter college 
at Oxford, he recalled the words with which he bade his father good- 
bye at the railroad station: 

"Never fear, dear old guv'nor, I'll do you credit. When my time 
comes to leave Oxford, it will be with a double fist and a M. A. tacked 
onto my name." 

And the dear old dad, with proud tears glistening in his eyes, had 
answered: 'T know it, my boy; go in and win, and . God bless you !" 

Oh, the pity of it all. Where now the high resolves, the proud 
aspirations? He, Roger Carville, the pride and hope of his father's 
heart, was turned from that same proud parent, from the home of his 
youth, an outcast and a thief. 

How he cursed his weakness and want of balance. He remembered, 
as though 'twere yesterday, how, in the exuberance of his budding man- 
hood, he had plunged into the pleasures and dissipations of the fast 
student set at Oxford. Cards, horse-racing, drink and debt ; he had gone 
the limit. Again and again he was compelled to go to his father for 
assistance to meet these "debts of honor;" until at last the generosity 
and patience of this firm friend and fond parent was exhausted, and he 
had been told that the next offence would mean his withdrawal from 
college and all that it held for him. 

Then a new influence had entered his life. A theatrical company 
came to the town of Oxford, and he received an introduction to a chorus 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 147 

girl attached to the combination. She was a sweet, winsome, womanly 
girl, experiencing for the first time the vicissitudes of the player's life. 
Nine months earlier her mother, the sole relation she possessed in the 
world, since the death of her father, who had been an underpaid curate 
in a country town, had died, leaving her dependent on the sympathies 
or otherwise of a hard, cold world. 

She had a nest egg of two hundred pounds — all that her mother had 
been able to leave her. She was the possessor of a singularly beautiful 
contralto voice, and, acting upon the advice of acquaintances in the 
church choir, where she was wont to sing on Sundays, she went to 
London, and for six months studied voice culture, living modestly the 
meanwhile in furnished lodgings. 

At the end of that time, her money being nearly expended, she tried 
to obtain engagements at private concerts. Lack of influence and an 
inability to dress in an extravagant or costly manner, spelt failure. 
Eventually she was compelled to accept a position in the chorus of a 
musical comedy company, where her innocence, refinement and 
unsophisticated manners were the butt of many a coarse and humiliating 
witticism. 

Her wondrous beauty and natural refinement attracted Roger to 
the extent of his falling hopelessly in love. He, for the time being, 
forsook the fast set of Oxford, and devoted himself to the innocent girl 
who had so aroused his admiration. She, on her part, was touched 
by his devotion and the air of gentlemanly grace and courtesy with 
which he treated her. She seemed, when in his company, to be living in 
a different atmosphere from that of the dressing-room and stage. Before 
the week of the company's stay was up, they were mutually in love ; and 
he, using all the arguments of impetuous youth, had persuaded her to 
marry him then and there ; the theatrical company going on to the next 
town without her. For a month they were supremely happy. He took 
rooms for her a little way out of the town, in an old-fashioned house 
kept by a maiden lady of small means. But owing to the fact that he 
had not dared to declare his marriage either to his father or his fellow- 
students, he ofttimes found himself in a dilemma to explain his absence 
from old haunts and companions. On the fifth week, to avert suspicion, 
he went on two occasions to the rooms of a college friend who played 
cards with boon companions for high stakes. Excited by the wine he 



148 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

drank there, Roger allowed himself to be drawn into a game of cards and 
lost heavily. It was the beginning of the end. 

Night after night he played, losing more and more, and drinking 
furiously as he realized the position he was getting into. On several 
occasions he returned to the gentle girl-wife mad with drink and disap- 
pointment, and twice in his delirious rage he had struck her and accused 
her of being the cause of his downfall. 

At last his companions began to press him for the money which he 
had lost to them at cards. He dared not go to his father and confess, 
so, after a last furious scene with the sweet girl to whom he had given 
his name, he went to his bachelor rooms, and, crazed with drink and fear, 
had signed his father's name to a cheque for a large amount. 

Armed with this, he started in to play that night more recklessly 
than before, and, as usual, lost. He paid his debts with the forged check, 
receiving the balance in cash. Three days later he stumbled into his 
wife's room to find two letters, addressed to him, lying on the dressing- 
table. Mechanically he opened the first; it was in his wife's handwriting, 
and read as follows : 

"Dear Roger : I have tried so hard to believe in you ; I have prayed 
so earnestly for you. But it seems hopeless. After your words to me 
when you left me last night, when you told me I was unworthy of you, 
that I was standing in the way of your future career, I felt there was 
nothing left for me but to rid you of my presence and to seek my own 
living. It will be useless for you to try to find me, even if you wished 
to. In spite of everything, I still love you, and shall always pray for 
you, and that some day things will come right. God bless you ! Your 
wife, Mildred." 

Half dazed he sank into a chair. "The night before last," it said in 
the letter. Then she, his innocent girl-wife, had been gone nearly two 
days. Good God ! Alone, to battle her own way. He was sober enough 
now, as he sprang to his feet in the determination to rush forth, seek 
and find her at all costs. But what was this ? His startled eyes rested 
on the other letter. It was in his father's handwriting. The blood which 
had mounted to his cheeks in his excitement receded, leaving his face 
deadly pale. The consciousness of guilt was upon him ; he felt the icy 
grip of fear. 

With shaking fingers he opened the envelope and straightened out 
the folded sheet inside. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 149 

Without preface or introduction, it read as follows : 
"It has come to my ears that you are living with a woman calling 
herself Mrs. Roger Carville, at the address to which this letter is directed. 
That and a communication from my bankers require an immediate 
explanation. Unless this is forthcoming before Wednesday next, Christ- 
mas Eve, I shall be compelled to place the matter in the hands of 
detectives for the honor of the family and that of your grieved and 
broken-hearted father. Roger Carville." 

Wednesday ! Christmas Eve ! Why, why, this was Tuesday night. 
No time to lose; what should he do? Fly? Suicide? Was there no 
other way of escape? 

No! no! he would go to his father; he had never failed him. And 
yet, how could 1 he confess? He would emigrate. But then — Mildred. 

He couldn't leave her to be thought of as . Quick! A telegraph 

form! Ah, here it is: "Letter just received; coming immediately; 
Roger." Now a cab. "Post office." Telegram dispatched, there was 
just time to catch the midnight train to London and the early morning 

one from there to D shire. The journey passed as in a dream. It 

was dark when, on Wednesday evening, he stepped from the train at 
the little West of England station. The silent drive to the house, and 
then the long, interminable scene in the library. 

What was that? The dreamer started, and turned toward the gates 
of the avenue, leading to the high road. Through the midnight air rang 
out the Christmas chimes. Down in the bell tower of old Carville church 
the ringers were pulling lustily, telling the world the news of "Peace 
on earth and goodwill toward men." At the gates, the old lodge-keeper 
was standing at his open door, silently welcoming in the Christmas morn. 

"God bless you, Master Roger, and a happy Christmas," said the 
old man, as he recognized the figure passing out through the great gates. 

"Happy Christmas," said Roger absently, and turning on his heel, 
strode down the moonlit highway. 

PART II. 

A year has passed. It is once more the eve of Christmas. In a tiny 

room, away up under the eaves of a London lodging-house, a young 

mother is soothing her tiny babe. "There, darling, mamma will only 

leave you for a little while and then return with milk for her little one. 



150 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Yes, milk and — coals, baby; coals to make you warm. Oh! my little 
love, to think that mummy must go out on this bitter night, and sell 
her body to keep her babe from starving. But there's nothing else, 
baby. You don't know, dear, how hard mummy has tried to get work ; 
and now, now, dear mite, she must face shame and dishonor that you 
may live. O God, pity me; if it were not for you, my sweet, death 
would be welcome." 

Tucking the thin covering closer around the tiny three-months-old 
baby boy, the mother silently left the room. Down the dirty, creaking 
stairs she went, and out into the street. Softly fell the snow in great 
white flakes, deadening the sound of the traffic in the mighty arteries of 
the city, and rapidly soaking through the thin soles of her small shoes. 

Swiftly she made her way along the embankment of the black, 
sluggish Thames, and passing up one of the side streets, emerged in 
the current of life and bright lights which thronged the Strand. Already 
her scanty garments were becoming dampened by the thickening snow- 
flakes. Breathlessly, with a tightening of the heart, she watched from 
a doorway bad women, unfortunates of the streets, accost men in well- 
cut evening dress — sometimes to meet with a rebuff, as often, after a 
short conversation, to be joined by the accosted and escorted to the 
entrance of some brilliantly-lighted saloon or cafe, or after some alcoholic 
refreshment, passing out with flushed faces, to drive away with the 
companion of their sin in a quickly-summoned hansom cab. 

Could she? — Dare she? — 

Twice she made as though to approach a stranger; twice she 
retreated'. 

Once a man, overflowing with alcoholic exuberance, made to take 
her arm, muttering the while through drink-sodden lips a filthy remark. 
Oh, she couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't. And yet — Baby ! 

O, better they both die than — that! As she stood in miserable 
indecision, a gentle voice fell on her ear and a soft touch rested on 
her arm. 

"Sister, are you in trouble?" 

Turning, she looked into a pair of tender blue eyes, smiling with 
kindly interest from beneath a Salvation Army bonnet. 

Mildred — for it was she — had often seen these lassies on their 
errands of mercy and love, but never gave them more than a passing 
thought. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 151 

"No, no," she answered. "I'm — I'm quite all right, thank you." 

"Is that the truth?" asked the Salvation lassie. "I think you are 
in trouble ; won't you let me help you ?" 

"I — oh, I" — and then the poor wounded spirit broke down, and 
before Mildred knew what had happened, she was sobbing out her story 
on the sympathetic breast of her listener. Within an hour, Mildred and 
her babe were installed in comfort and warmth within the walls of one 
of The Army's Rescue Homes. 

Her story verified, the tender-hearted matron interested herself on 
Mildred's behalf to such purpose, that before two months had passed 
she found herself engaged as companion and secretary to Lady Z., wife 
of the newly-appointed Governor of a distant colony. Lady Z. knew her 
story from start to finish, and her kindly woman's heart rebelled at the 
thought of separating mother and child; so that, after much coaxing 
and gentle feminine persuasion, she gained the consent of her good- 
natured husband to include both Mildred and Baby Roger in the 
Government House party sailing for the Colonies. During the voyage 
and once duly installed in the Government House, Baby Roger quickly 
became the ruler and gurgling tyrant of the household. Once more the 
joy of life and living had entered the breast of his gentle mother. During 
all this time never once had she heard from or of, her husband ; Roger 
was as one dead. 

She never ceased to pray for him and to hope that one day he 
would be restored to her, a changed man. 

j(i SjS % 5JC JJC 

Three years passed happily and uneventfully in the sunny city, when 
one morning, among his mail, Lord Z. found a letter from his old friend, 
Sir Roger Carville. 

The letter stated that since the disappearance of his only son, he had 
been in indifferent health. He had tried long and unsuccessfully to trace 
either Roger or the girl whom he married secretly. The worry had 
undermined his naturally strong constitution and his doctors ordered a 
complete change of scene and the effects of a sea voyage. Might he, 
therefore, consider himself welcome, if he paid a visit to his old friend 
in the Antipodes? 

The Governor's reply, after a short consultation with his wife, was 
in the form of a cablegram which read as follows: "Delighted; come 
at once and stay as long as you like." Mildred was not taken into the 



152 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

secret. Lady Z., with a woman's natural love for a mystery, commanded 
silence on the subject of Sir Roger's visit, trusting to her native wit to 
make the occasion of the meeting between him and his daughter-in-law 
one of peace and mutual reconciliation. In due course Sir Roger arrived 
and was cordially welcomed by his old friends. Mildred and her boy, 
now a sturdy young Colonial nearing the manly age of four, were visiting 
friends of Lady Z.'s some little way from the city. It was three days 
after Sir Roger's arrival that they returned to the Government House. 

Sir Roger was sitting on the veranda as the carriage containing 
Mildred and her boy pulled up at the entrance. 

Mildred, looking sweet and winsome in her white frock, passed in 
through the open doorway. Master Roger, with the assurance and 
natural curiosity of "nearly four," called after her: "Tummin' d'ectly, 
mumsey," and proceeded to investigate and examine the strange, sad, 
white-haired gentleman who was quietly smoking his cigar in the rocking 
chair. 

"How-do-you-do?" he asked gravely, plunging his hands into the 
pockets of his small, white sailor suit. "I don't fink I've seen you 'fore. 
I'm nearly four years old; how old is you — no, I mean am you — 'is' 
is wrong, 'cause mumsey said so." All this was rattled of! in one breath, 
and he paused with a very red face and large, inquiring eyes for the 
answer. 

"Well, young man," said the strange "gen'l'm," "I'm very well, 
thank you. You are right; we haven't met before, and I am more than 
four years old. Now, perhaps, you'll be good enough to tell me your 
name, also why you left your sister just now to come and talk to me?'' 

"Dat wasn't my sister ; haven't dot a sister ; and, 'sides, I don't like 
girls; dat was my mumsey!" 

"Oh, I beg your pardon." The kind eyes twinkled. "Now, may 
I ask your name?" 

"Oh ! I fordot. I beg your pardon. My name is Wodger Car- 
ville — what's yours?" 

"Good heavens ! Say it again, child, say it again !" 

"I fink you're vewy wude to shout," answered the wee man with a 
tiny dignified frown, "I said my name is Wodger Carville !" 

"Thank God!" said the stranger, "and — and that young lady in 
white is your — — ?" 

"Dat's my mumsey, I — I take care of her." And the baby lips 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 153 



quivered tremulously at the suddenly conceived notion that this strange, 
white-haired man might want to harm his "mumsey." 

"Oh, little lad, little lad," said the stranger as, lifting Baby Roger 
in his arms, he strode into the open hall. 

"Wot V you levin' for?" inquired the young man, "nearly four." 

"For joy, laddie, for joy," whispered the old man huskily. 

We will draw a veil over that meeting between the old man and his 
newly-discovered daughter. His joy was wonderful when he found and 
fathomed her sweet nature. Master Roger's joy was also intense when 
he realized the "strange gene'l'm was a real live gran'pa," and one who 
never tired of playing "Piggy backs" and "Ride-a-cock-horse." 

Lady Z. said to her husband, a week later, "I knew he would be 
bound to love her as his own daughter, if once they met." 

Lord Z. looked at her with admiration and vowed to himself that 
his wife was the most wonderful and clever little woman in the world. 

PART III. 

riway up in a mining camp of the Goldfields, two men were taking 
their "billy" and tea outside their miner's tent. 

One was a mars of about forty, with iron-gray hair and bronzed face, 
showing where the thick beard was not. His expression was one of 
quiet determination, combined with the softened lines of one who had 
passed through much disappointment and come through the fire trusting 
in a Higher Power for wisdom and strength. 

The other was a tall, magnificently built man not yet out of his 
twenties. His face, with sunbrowned, handsome features, had the 
appearance of one who carried a great sorrow. His gray eyes constantly 
wore a far-away, strained, hopeless expression like unto that of a faith- 
ful dog discovered in wrongdoing and undergoing its just punishment. 
Just now they burned with a fierce, resentful light. 

"It's no good," said the owner. "We've been plugging away at this 
old mine for nearly two years now. And what have we got? What 
are we worth? About five hundred pounds apiece." 

"Laddie, a tell ye, theere's a sicht o' gold 1 awa doon; an' mon 
Rogers, ye maist hae' patience," replied 1 the elder man. 

"I tell you it's no good, Scottie," answered the man addressed as 
Rogers, with an impatient gesture. "I've tried to believe in the old 
claim; I've tried to play the game with you and — and others." The 



154 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

gray eyes took on the far-away look. "But I can't do it any longer. 
Three days from now it'll be Christmas. I'm going down into the city, 
and try to drown my sorrows for a week. It'll be the first drop for four 
years, but I must do it or go mad. I'll come back, my dear old pard, 
never fear" 

"Dinna dae it, laddie ; dinna dae it." 

"I must, Scottie — I must!" 

Two evenings later the one who called himself Rogers stepped from 
the train at the railway terminus in the great city, the centre of activities. 

It was Christmas Eve. 

The air was intolerably hot. The day had been one of oppressing 
closeness. Should he take a drink — his first for four years — or should 
he seek a hotel and freshen up after his tiring journey? He decided on 
the latter course. Once settled in his hotel he had a bath, and throwing 
himself on the bed "for forty winks," as he told himself, he fell into a 
heavy slumber. 

It was some hours later that he awoke with a start. He looked at 
his watch. It was approaching midnight. Suddenly it struck him as 
curious that he should be able to discern that time, since his gas jet 
was not lighted. Glancing at the window, he noticed a red glow entering 
and illuminating the room. 

With a spring he was off the bed. Rushing to his window he beheld 
a sight that momentarily chilled the blood in his veins. The big, fashion- 
able hotel across the street was one sheet of flame. Downstairs he flew 
and standing in the doorway watched, awestruck, the conflagration before 
him. 

As he gazed at the terror-stricken guests rushing pellmell through 
the open haft door of the doomed building, his heart gave a sudden 
bound. For, staggering out into the street, he beheld his father, his 
dear old guv'nor whom he had not seen for exactly four years. As he 
sprang to meet him, a mighty shout arose from the crowd, and looking 
up, he saw standing at the open bedroom window on the third floor of 
the blazing building — his wife. There was no mistaking her. The 
hungry flames mounting higher and higher, lighted up her beautiful face, 
as with a child in her arms she looked appealingly down at the helpless 
crowd beneath. 





j \{fcA> ^^Jr^? ')&'*' ^ 




Down foot by foot, carefully feeling his way." 

Courtesy "The War Cry. 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 155 

A fireman was bravely battling up the fire-escape. A groan came 
from the crowd as the poor fellow, overcome by the smoke and fumes, 
fell back into the arms of the man behind and was taken down by him. 

"Stand back, we can do nothing," cried the chief of the fire brigade. 

And the crowd stood in awe-stricken silence, awaiting with palsied 
hearts the seemingly inevitable. 

But what was this? A shout went up, another and yet another, 
as the breathless multitude watched a man, strong and supple, mount 
the ladder, rung after rung, toward the window where the woman and 
child were standing. 

Would he do it? 

Could he do it? 

A groan arose as he was seen to falter and then disappear from 
view in a blinding cloud of smoke and flame. 

A cheer, a roar; he has gained the window ledge — he is inside! 

A frightened hush succeeds as all three retreat inward from the 
view of the crowd. 

Would he be mad enough to try to force his way down the stairway ? 
It was a sheet of flame and meant certain death. 

No. There he is again, beckoning to the firemen. Ah ! they under- 
stand, and train a spray of water onto the escape. A roar, then again 
silence. 

He 'has them strapped to him, enveloped in a blanket. 

Can he hold them? One arm only has he with which to cling to the 
ladder. Down, foot by foot, carefully feeling his way, he moves toward 
safety. 

The crowd is afraid to breathe. 

The firemen are doing their work well. 

He will — he will — he has. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! The pent-up feelings of the crowd burst forth and 
men are shaking hands and hugging each other hysterically. 

"Who's the man?" "Does any one know him?" "He's a hero !" and 
so they comment. 

Meanwhile friendly hands had quickly carried the rescued and res- 
cuer to a nearby house, where their burns and injuries were skillfully 
tended by eager physicians. 

Two weeks later an interesting and wonderfully happy group might 
have been seen seated around the invalid-chair of the man who dared. 



156 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Roger, my son," said the white-haired man (a very much happier 
man than when we last saw him), "You have made your atonement. 
You have lived a clean life since that night four years ago, when I was 
wicked enough to turn you away from my home and heart. I, too, have 
suffered for my pride, my boy." 

"But, dear guv'nor, about the life I led — I — that night I came into 
town to " 

"Yes, we know, 'Scottie' told us when he came to town the follow- 
ing day to save you, to tell you that your claim has, at last, proved to 
be one of the best in the camp " 

"You don't mean? " 

"Yes, it is true, dear," suddenly interrupted the soft voice of Mil- 
dred, "your claim is full of the golden treasure." 

"It is nothing to the treasures I have found in the city," answered 
Roger, as he turned his glistening eyes to his dear ones in turn. "Thank 
God, Lady Z. had to send you to the hotel to make room for her Christ- 
mas guests." 

"Yes," agreed a small voice, "t'ank Dod !" — War Cry 

THE PAUPER WOMAN'S SPEECH. 

At a certain meeting in Pennsylvania, the question came up, whether 
any person should be licensed to sell rum. The clergyman, the deacon 
and physician, strange as it may appear, all favored license. One man 
only spoke against it, because of the mischief it did. The question was 
about to be put, when all at once there arose from a corner a miserable 
old woman. She was thinly clad, and her appearance indicated the 
utmost wretchedness, and that her mortal career had almost closed. 
After a moment of silence, during which all eyes were fixed on her, 
she stretched her body to its utmost height, and then her arms to their 
greatest length, and raising her voice to a shrill pitch, she called to look 
upon her. "Yes," she said, "look upon me and hear me. All that the 
last speaker has said relative to temperate drinking as the father of 
drunkenness, is true. All drinking of alcoholic poison as a beverage is 
excess. Look upon me ! You all know me, or at least once did. You 
all know that I was once mistress of the best place in town; you all 
know, too, that I had one of the best and most devoted husbands ; you 
all know that I had five noble-hearted, industrious boys. Where are 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 157 

they now? Doctor, where are they now? You all know; you know they 
lie in a row, side by side, in yonder churchyard, every one of them filled 
a drunkard's grave. They were all taught to believe that temperate 
drinking was safe ; that excess only ought to be avoided, and they never 
acknowledged excess. They quoted you, and you, and you," pointing 
her finger to the minister, deacon, and doctor, "as authority.' They 
thought themselves safe under such teachers. But with dismay and 
horror, I saw the gradual change come over my family and prospects. 
I felt that we were all to be overwhelmed in one common ruin. I tried 
to break the spell in which the idea of the benefits of temperate drinking 
had involved my husband and sons. I begged, I prayed, but the odds 
were against me. The minister said that the poison that was destroying 
my husband and boys was a good creature of God ; the deacon who sits 
under the pulpit there, sold them the poison, and took our home to pay 
the bills ; the doctor said a little was good, and excess only ought to be 
avoided. My poor husband and sons fell into the snare and they could 
not escape, and one after another was conveyed to the sorrowful grave 
of a drunkard. 

"Now, look at me again ! You probably may see me for the last 
time ; my sands have almost run. I have dragged my exhausted frame 
from my present home — your poorhouse — to warn you all; to warn 
you, false teachers of God's word !" and with her arms flung high, and 
her tall frame stretched to its utmost, and her voice raised to an 
unearthly pitch, she exclaimed : "I shall soon stand before the judg- 
ment seat of God, I shall meet you there, you false guides, and be 
witness against you all !" 

The miserable old woman vanished, a dead silence pervaded the 
assembly; the minister, deacon and the physician hung their heads, 
and the president of the court put the question : "Shall any license be 
granted for the sale of intoxicating liquors?" The unanimous response 
was, "NO !" 

If all paupers could speak, if maniacs could testify, if the 65,000 
prisoners in this land could tell of their temptation, sin and ruin; if 
the wives and children of living drunkards, and the widows and orphans 
of the dead ones, could come before us; if the countless tenants of 
drunkard's graves could appear and exhibit their fleshless forms, and 
lift up their skeleton hands, and tell how they were tempted, ruined 
and destroyed — it would need no further argument or plea to arouse 



158 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

all good and honest men, to warn, and testify, and denounce, and 
destroy with utter destruction, a business which curses humanity, and 
is accursed of the Most High God. — Tract. 

YOU NEVER TOLD US. 

He stood in the door of the Sabbath-school room, waiting to finish 
a conversation with a lady who held a boy by the hand. 

"Don't you think it would be well to let the scholars take part in 
some exercise on the subject of temperance, Mr. Johnson?" asked the 
lady. "You are the superintendent, and if you should assign the scholars 
any texts or verses about the subject, I know they would be glad to 
get them. You would, Eddie, wouldn't you?" 

"What! Say something, say a verse?" asked the boy, one of the 
kind whose eyes are forever snapping, hands forever moving, head for- 
ever turning, and to whom all occupation is a delight because a con- 
stitutional necessity. "I would, and I know lots of others would speak." 

"Temperance, did you say?" inquired Mr. Johnson, so coldly, that 
Mrs. Atwood felt a shiver at once. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Ahem! — it is not judicious, I think, to speak on controverted sub- 
jects in the Sabbath-school, and where a difference of opinion exists. 
I feel that it is better for people to think about temperance as they 
please. But it is time for me to call the school together," and the 
speaker moved along the entry like an iceberg drifting out of sight. 

"What did he say, mother?" asked Eddie. "That people had better 
think about temperance as they please?" 

Mrs. Atwood was so absorbed in her painful thoughts that she did 
not pay attention to the question. 

Days, weeks, months, even years slipped by. A "hard winter" 

visited the city of N . There was hardness in every direction. The 

severe cold that prevailed so long, seemed to freeze up everything. It 
reached the money bags in the vaults, and the tills in the counters, and 
the purses in the pockets of capitalists, ice forming everywhere and 
stopping the flow of money. At least a very scanty stream of the article 
dribbled into one poor home in a tall, gaunt tenement house. A mother 
was there, watching by the bed of a consumptive son, a young man. 

"A cold night," he said, "mother?" 

"Yes, it is." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 159 

"What makes you think it is snowing? Seems as if it were getting 
into bed," he said, in a hoarse whisper. 

"It is snowing." 

She went to the window and looked down into the street. A rough 
wind was driving the flakes in clouds through the streets, threatening 
to smother the lamp post and the very houses. 

"I can't seem to see anyone coming," she muttered. "It is so cold 
here." 

"I can't tell whether it is the snow or the serpents," said the son, in 
a loud whisper. 

"He is wandering again," said the mother, bending over the bed. 

"It will be warm soon, I think." 

"Yes, warm soon — soon — ha! ha!" 

His laugh was that of a mind breaking like a ship from all moorings 
and drifting out into a dark sea. 

That evening a note had been left at the door of a gentleman in 
the neighborhood, and it read thus: 

"There is a sick man, a consumptive, living in the district at No. 182 
Putnam Street. They are pretty destitute, and if you could get them 
some wood and coal to-night, I know it would be acceptable." 

"A note from our minister," said Mr. Berry. "He has been calling 
there to-day, probably. I will take some wood and coal with me and 
go at once. I wonder if my guest wouldn't like to come with me? He 
will have some idea of one of our poor districts." 

The gentleman visiting Mr. Berry said he would like to go, and the 
two started off, a basket of coal and wood hanging on Mr. Berry's arm. 
Through the snow they tugged, and then they climbed a dark flight of 
stairs leading- up somewhere from the black hole labeled "182." 

"Whew! how cold. We'll have a fire at once," said Mr. Berry, as 
he stooped over the stove in the consumptive's room, quickly changing 
the mute, rusty piece of iron into a creature that laughed and sang, 
chuckled and roared, flashing out into the room a cheery warmth. The 
companion of Mr. Berry had gone to the sick young man's bed. 

"I am sorrv you are sick," said the visitor. 

"Thank you, but the snakes are bad." 

"He is wandering, sir," exclaimed the mother. "But you wait a 
moment. His mind will come back again." 

The young man had fastened his dark, sunken eyes on the stranger, 



160 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and seemed to be making an effort to recognize him. It was a painful 
effort. It was hard to bring back the ship that had broken from its 
moorings, drifting off into the wildness and blackness of the sea. 

"Don't — don't I know you?" he asked. 

"Perhaps so." 

"Did you keep Sabbath-school — once?" 

"Yes." 

"Did — Eddie — Atwood — ever — go to you?" 

"Oh, yes, I remember him." 

"Didn't — you — once — say — you wouldn't have a temperance ser- 
vice — and people — had better think — as they please?" 

"I dare say. People were rather fanatical on the subject." 

"I am — Eddie — Atwood — ." 

"I wouldn't," said his mother. "It will make you cough." 

"Just — raise — me — once. I only say — it — Mr. Johnson — for 
you may still — be superintendent — and will know — what — to — do — 
another — time. I acted as you advised — and — did — as I pleased. You 
never — told us of — the evil of strong drink. I ruined — myself — in 
that way, and — here — I am — ." 

"Oh, don't don't, Edward! Oh, quick, quick! Help!" screamed the 
mother. 

But no help could reach Eddie Atwood. His soul had drifted out 
upon the sea from which no vessel ever returns. — Way of Faith. 

WHAT CAME TO DILLY'S HOUSE. 

Dilly was perched on a fence post, her light hair flying about her 
face and her little hands clasped behind her back. The small toes that 
peeped through her ragged shoes were red also, for the day was cold, 
but Dilly was used to such trifles. 

Toddles, the baby, who could not climb the fence, contented himself 
with looking through. He was bundled up in an old shawl, and, if the 
round face that peeped through the fence rails was roughened by the 
chill wind, he, like Dilly, had grown accustomed to such discomforts. 

It occurred to Freddy Burr, in the next yard, that their situation 
was scarcely agreeable. He looked up from the stick he was trying 
to split with his new hatchet, and asked: 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 161 

"What makes you sit up there such a day as this? Why don't you 
go into the house and keep warm?" 

" 'Cause I'd rather stay here and watch you," said Dilly, serenely. 
** 'Tain't no fun in the house." 

"Well, I wouldn't think it was any fun out here, I can tell you, 
if I didn't have a warm coat and scarf and these thick boots," remarked 
Freddy. 

Dilly looked at them, and an odd, vague wonder awoke, as she 
did so, and grew more distinct, until presently it took shape in words. 

"Why don't I have such things, too, Freddy Burr — shoes and new 
clothes and something to wear on my head?" 

" 'Cause your father drinks 'em up," answered Freddy promptly 

"No, he don't, either," said Dilly; "folks can't drink such things. 
Where do you get yours?" 

"My father buys 'em for me; and 1 the reason yours don't get any 
for you, is 'cause they all go into old Barney's rum barrels down at 
the corner. That's the way of it, true as you live, Dilly Keene, and it's 
awful mean, too," declared Freddy, growing indignant. 

Then a voice from the pretty house beyond called Freddy, and he 
ran in, while Dilly and Toddles, with their amusement of watching 
ended, turned slowly away. Dilly surveyed the baby and herself thought- 
fully, and sat down upon an old log to meditate. If what Freddy Burr 
had told her was true, something ought to be done about it; and the 
longer she pondered, the more fully she became convinced that she had 
heard the truth. 

" 'Cause other folks has things and we don't, and it must be ours 
go somewhere," she reasoned. "They can't be any good there, either. 
I'm just sure they can't. Mebby I've got a hood — mebby it would be 
a nice red one, pretty and warm. Wish I had it now. Wish Toddles 
had " 

She stopped, as a brilliant plan flashed suddenly through her brain. 
Wouldn't her mother be surprised if she could do that — poor mother 
who was out washing and would be so tired when she came home at 
night. 

"Toddles, let's do it!" she said, springing up, excitedly. "Let's go 
an' see if we can get some of 'em." 

"Yah!" answered Toddles, contentedly; and, taking his hand, Dilly 
opened the creaking gate and led the way down the street. 



162 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

There were a number of men in the store at the corner — a queer 
store, with a curtain across the lower half of its front window. Dilly 
saw them when the door opened, but she was a determined little body 
when she had decided on the proper thing to do. So she only clasped 
Toddles' hand closer and walked in and up to the counter, making an 
extra effort to speak distinctly because her heart beat so fast. 

"Please, sir, have you got anything of ours a soak here?" 

There was an instant's silence, and then a shout of laughter from 
the men. 

"Well, now, that's a neat way of putting it. Hey, Keene, these 
youngsters of yours want to know if Barney has you in soak here?" 

An old slouched hat behind the stove was raised a little, but there 
was no other sign that the man heard. 

Dilly shrank back abashed. 

"Oh, I didn't mean him !" 

"What did you mean, then?" asked a coarse, red-faced man, advanc- 
ing behind the bar, and speaking in tones not at all gentle or amiable. 

"Shoes and coats and such things," faltered Dilly. "Hoods — I'm 
afraid it's spoiled with the whiskey, but mebby ma could wash it out. 
Wouldn't you take some of them out of your barrel, Mr. Barney? We 
need 'em awful bad." 

"I should think as much," muttered one of the bystanders, sur- 
veying the two dilapidated figures ; but Mr. Barney's wrath was rising. 

"What barrel? Who sent you here?" he demanded angrily. 

"Your rum barrel," answered Dilly, standing her ground desperately, 
though with a little catch in her breath that was just ready to break into 
a sob. "Ma works hard all the time, and she looks so sorry; and we 
don't have any nice dinners at our house like Freddy Burr's ; and no 
new shoes, nor caps, nor anything. I asked Freddy where our good 
things went to, 'cause they don't come to our house, and he said you 
had 'em in your barrels. Please take some of 'em out, Mr. Barney. 
I'm sure it can't make anybody's drink taste a bit better to have a poor 
little boy's and girl's new shoes and dresses and everything in the barrel." 

"You're right there, sissy. It's nigh about spoiled the taste of 
mine," said one of the group, putting down the glass with a perplexed 
look. 

But the barkeeper's look was wrathful. "We've had enough of this 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 163 

nonsense. Now leave, you rag muffins, as fast as your legs can carry 
you, and never let me catch you inside these doors again." 

He stepped toward them. The man behind the stove suddenly arose. 

"Take care, Barney; you'd better not touch them." There was fire 
in the eyes under the old slouch hat before which Mr. Barney drew back. 

Both children were crying by this time, but the father took a hand 
of each and passed into the street. 

Two weeks later Dilly completed the story to Freddy Burr. "See 
here," she said, pushing the toes of a stout pair of new shoes through 
the fence, "and here," bobbing up for an instant to show the hood that 
covered her yellow hair. 

"Where did you get 'em?" asked Freddy. 

"Why, pa worked and bought 'em, and brought 'em home, and 
they didn't get into nobody's barrel," explained Dilly, with great pride 
and little regard for grammar. "You see, the billennium has come to 
our house. The 'billennium' — it's a pretty long word,' said Dilly, com- 
placently, "but it means 'good times.' It was just this way, Freddy. 
When you told me Mr. Barney had all our nice things in his barrel, I 
just went right down there and asked him for 'em, me and Toddles." 

"You didn't!" exclaimed Freddy. 

"Did too !" declared Dilly. "Well, he wouldn't give me one of 
'em, and was just as cross as anything. So then pa got up from the 
stove and walked home with us. He didn't scold a bit; he just sat down 
before the fire and thinked and thinked. At last he put his hand in one 
pocket, but there was not anything there. Then he put his hand in the 
other pocket, and found ten cents, and went out and bought some meat 
for supper. Then when ma came home he talked to her, and they both 
cried ; I don't know what for, 'less 'twas 'cause we couldn't get the things 
out of the barrel. And ma hugged and kissed me most to death that 
night. Well, my pa got some work next day, and brought home some 
money ; and now he has a place to work every day. He bought all these 
things, and he says his little boy and girl shall have things like other 
folks. So now you'll know what the billennial means. Freddy, when 
anybody asks you, and you can tell 'em Dilly Keene 'splained it to you." 
— Independent. 

THE WIDOW AND THE JUDGE. 

Some time about the commencement of the year 1874, a train was 



164 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

passing over the Northwestern Railroad, between Oshkosh and Madison. 
In two of the seats facing- each other, sat three lawyers engaged at cards. 
Their fourth player had just left the car, and they needed another to 
take his place. "Come, Judge, take a hand," they said to a grave 
magistrate, who sat looking on, but whose face indicated no approval 
of their play. He shook his head, but after repeated urgings, finally 
with a flushed countenance, took a seat among them, and the play 
went on. 

A venerable woman, gray and bent with years, sat and watched the 
judge from her seat near the end of the railway car. 

After the game had progressed a while, she arose, and with tremb- 
ling frame, and almost overcome with emotion, approached the group. 
Fixing her eyes intently upon the judge, she said, in a tremulous voice, 
"Do you know me, Judge ?" 

"No, - mother, I don't remember you," said the judge pleasantly. 
"Where have we met?" 

"My name is Smith," said she ; "I was with my poor boy three days 
off and on, in the court room at Oshkosh, when he was tried for — rob- 
bing some bank, and you are the man that sent him to prison for ten 
years, and he died there last June." 

All faces were now sober, and the passengers began to gather around 
and stand up, all over the car, to listen to, and see what was going on. 
She did not give the judge time to answer her but becoming more and 
more excited, she went on: 

"He was a good boy, if you did send him to jail. He helped us to 
clear the farm, and when his father was taken sick and died, he done 
all the work, and we were getting along right smart. He was a stiddy 
boy till he got to keard- playin' and drinkin', and then, somehow, he 
didn't like to work after that, but used to stay out often till mornin', 
and he'd sleep so late, and I couldn't wake him, when I knew he'd been 
so late the night afore. And then the farm kinder run down, and then 
we lost the team; one of them got killed, when he'd been to town one 
awful cold night. He'd stayed late, and I suppose they got cold standin' 
out, and got skeered and broke loose, and run most home, but run 
against a fence ; and a stake run into one of 'em ; and when we found it 
next mornin' it was dead, and the other was standin' under the shed. 

"And so after a while, he coaxed me to sell the farm and buy a 
house and lot in the village, and he'd work at carpenter work. 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 165 

And so I did, as we couldn't do nothing on the farm. But he grew 
worse than ever, and after awhile, he couldn't get work, and wouldn't 
do anything but gamble and drink all the time. I used to do everything 
I could to get him to quit, and be a good, industrious boy again, but 
he used to get mad after awhile, and once he struck me, and then in 
the morning I found he had taken what little money there was left of 
the farm, and had run off. 

"After that time I got along as well as I could, cleanin' house for 
folks and washin', but I didn't hear nothing of him for four or five years ; 
but When he got arrested, and was took up to Oshkosh for trial, he 
writ to me." 

By this time there was not a dry eye in the car, and the cards had 
disappeared. The old lady herself was weeping silently, and speaking 
betimes. But recovering herself, she went on : 

"But what could I do? I sold the house and lot to get money to 
hire a lawyer, and I believe he is here, somewhere, looking around. Oh, 

yes, there he is, Mr. , pointing to Lawyer , who had not taken 

part in the play." And this is the man, I am sure, who argued agin 

him," pointing to Mr. , the district attorney. "And you, Judge , 

sent him to prison for ten years ; 'spose it was right, for the poor boy 
told me that he really did rob the bank, but he must have been drunk, 
for they had been playin' keards most all the night and drinkin'. But, 
oh, dear! it seems to me kinder as though, if he hadn't got to playin' 
keards, he might 'a been alive yet. But, when I used to tell him it 
was wrong and bad to play, he would say: 'Why mother, everybody 
plays now. I never bet only for candy or cigars, or something like that.' 

"And when we heard that the young folks played keards down to 
Mr. Culver's donation party, and that Squire Ring was goin' to get a 
billiard table for his young folks to play on at home, I couldn't do 
nothing with him. We used to think it awful to do that way, when I 
was young, but it just seems to me as if everybody nowadays was goin' 
wrong into something or other. 

"But maybe it isn't right for me to talk to you, judge, in this way, 
but it jist seems to me as if the very sight of them keards would kill 
me, judge; I thought if you knew how I felt, you would not play so ; 
and then to think, right here before all these folks ! Maybe, judge, you 
don't know how young folks, especially boys, look up to such as you, and 
then I can't help thinkin' that, maybe if them that ought to know better, 



166 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

learn them to do so, and them as are higher learnt and all that, wouldn't 
set sich examples, my poor Tom would be alive and caring for his poor 
mother; but now there ain't any of my family left but me and my poor 
gran'chile, my darter's little girl, and we are going to stop with my 
brother in Illinois." 

A more eloquent sermon is seldom preached than was heard from 
that gray, withered, old lady, trembling with age, excitement and fear 
that she was doing wrong. I can't recall half she said, as she, a poor, 
lone beggard widow, stood before these noble-looking men, and pleaded 
the cause of the rising generation. 

The look they bore as she poured forth the sorrowful tale was 
indescribable. To say that they looked like animals at the bar, would 
be a faint description. I can imagine how they felt. The old lady 
tottered to her seat, and taking her little grandchild in her lap, hid 
her face on her neck. The little one stroked her gray hair, and said : 
"Don't cry, granma ; don't cry, granma." Eyes unused to weeping were 
red for many a mile on that journey. And I can hardly believe that one 
who witnessed that scene ever touched a card again. It is but just to 
say, that when the passengers came to themselves, they generously 
responded to the judge, who, hat in hand, silently passed through her 
little audience. — "Touching Incidents and Remarkable Answers to 
Prayer.' , 

A BOTTLE OF TEARS. 

Many years ago, while holding a meeting just over the Virginia 
line, I heard the following story, which was afterwards confirmed by a 
man who knew the parties and was acquainted with all its details. 

One evening in October, a sweet girl of sixteen stood by the bap- 
tismal font and answered the questions which stood for fidelity to her 
Lord and the church forever. Only two years later she stood by those 
same altars by the side of a strong, noble man, to whom she pledged un- 
broken loyalty. The future was promising indeed, and everybody 
seemed to catch the spirit of gladness as they passed under the wedding 
arch, amid strains of music, to the carriage awaiting them, and were 
wheeled to the station. They soon left old friends and old scenes behind 
them, as they went sweeping through strange scenery on the way to the 
homestead of the groom, to which he had fallen heir and to which he was 
taking his beautiful young bride. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 167 

Two mornings later they came to the place that was to be their fu- 
ture home. Everything was beautiful, and it seemed to the young bride 
that nothing short of paradise could surpass its beauty or be more replete 
with bliss. 

Between this lovely mansion and the well-kept farm three miles 
away was a place the threshold of which the young husband had never 
crossed, the gathering place of the rough element of that section of the 
country. But one evening he did turn in with a friend. Later he visited 
the place alone. He sipped, he treated, he drank, he gambled, he soon 
became a drunkard, and one day he was murdered and carried home to 
be buried in the family garden. This brief recital covers a period of 
from ten to twelve years. 

The morning after the broken-hearted woman had laid her husband 
away, a note was handed her by the bar-keeper, from his employer, in 
which he claimed that he held a mortgage on the place, including farm 
implements, household furniture, and even all wearing apparel, in fact 
everything she possessed that had not already been lost by her departed 
husband. 

This was a great blow to the suffering woman, as she believed there 
was still left her the house and a few acres of land on which the house 
stood. She rested her aching head on her hands and shed burning tears, 
which unconsciously to herself fell into a saucer that was lying in her 
lap, and from which her youngest child had just eaten its breakfast. As 
she looked down and saw the tears that had rained into the saucer, she 
took them and poured them into a phial, which she placed in the folds of 
her wedding dress that had hung in her wardrobe since the day of her 
wedding. Then she wrote him a letter, in substance as follows : 

"Sir, you demand the keys. I send them herewith. The one with a 
red string unlocks my wardrobe. In the right side you will find my 
wedding dress. I never wore it but once. In its folds you will find a 
small bottle containing a few tears." Then she went on to relate the 
story of her courtship and marriage, of their short honeymoon, of the 
time that she was brought into this home the happy bride of one of the 
noblest of husbands. 

Then came the sad story of the first time her husband crossed the 
threshold of the one who sold him the liquor that caused his downfall ; 
of the first time she detected the odor of liquor on his breath; of the 
many promises that it would never happen again; of the time that he 



168 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

became a tippler; of the first time his step was unsteady, and then his 
rapid decline until he became a confirmed drunkard. 

One child was born, and he promised to leave off his habit of drink- 
ing. New hope sprang up in her breast, only to be dashed to pieces in 
but a few days. The habit had taken such strong hold- of him that he 
could not resist, and was soon in its clutches again. Then another child 
was soon given to them. 

It was the old story of the flight of luxury; of the desertion of 
friends ; of the curtailing of expenses in order to meet the claims of the 
liquor dealer; of the decline of health; of the times that she had to flee 
with her children from rum-crazed husband and father. Then a third 
child came, which added to the weight of struggle to keep the wolf from 
the door. 

One night she cried out in her anguish of heart, and it wakened 
her oldest child, who came to her bedside and asked to know the cause 
of it all. She was told that her mother was dying and that she would 
have to take the place of her mother in caring for papa and the little 
sisters, that papa was a hopeless drunkard and she would soon be the 
only bread-winner. The child met her father in the early morning as 
he came staggering up the walk, and throwing her arms around him 
told him of her mother's condition, and pleaded with him to give up his 
drinking habits. His only reply was an oath and a blow felled her to 
the ground, and then he came into the house and met his wife with 
curses and blows. 

But it did not end with that, and one day he was carried into her 
home by four of the liquor dealer's henchmen, dead. Some friendly 
negroes dug the grave in what she supposed to be her own garden and 
buried him there under his favorite apple tree. But now even that is 
gone from her and she is left a widow with three children to care for 
and not even a roof over her head. 

So that is the meaning of the bottle of tears, and some day the one 
who sold this young man the liquor will have to answer for it before the 
judgment bar of God; answer for a blighted home, a widow's broken 
heart and three children left without a home, left to struggle along in 
this world without a father's protection and care with only the memory 
of a murdered father filling a drunkard's grave. — Selected by The Mis- 
sionary Worker. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 169 

THE STANDARD-BEARER. 

He came into a small Western city to take charge of Christian 
work. He had just finished a course in theology, having graduated 
from the regular course several years before. He was not young. I 
fancy he had already entered the thirties. He had worked his way 
through college and had overcome all manner of obstacles in order to 
complete his education and prepare for the life work which he had 
chosen. 

His boyhood, I fancy, had not been care-free. His family was poor, 
and had little more than bare necessities. But Norman was born with 
a love for the beautiful things of life. His desires ran to fine books, 
flowers, pictures and music. From boyhood he had hungered for those 
things which he had not. Then came a time when they lay at his feet. 

This little Western city was the home of wealth. I do not know 
that it was any better or worse than the average towns of the country. 

There were many churches ; a few drinking and gambling places ; but 
the popular sentiment was in favor of morality and high ideals of 
living. There were several beautiful streets of fine homes, with beautiful 
lawns and servants in livery. Here the majority of the men and women 
were college-bred and many had studied abroad. 

In such an atmosphere Norman was placed. He was fresh from 
privations, poverty and the struggle for self-maintenance. 

The people were pleased with him. They recognized him as a man 
of ability; they admired his self-reliance; they respected his principle. 
They were ready to listen to him, to follow him as a leader. He was 
received everywhere. Old conservative families who made few friends 
received him warmly. 

Here came the test of his moral strength, but he did not recognize it 
as such. He had risen above adversity; he had succeeded against 
poverty ; unknown and obscure, he had made known his views from the 
isolated portion of his world. All this may a man of average moral 
caliber do; but to withstand and to grow strong among the seducing, 
effeminating influence of wealth demands a moral giant. 

Norman had looked upon the liquor traffic as the handmaid of the 
evil one. He had used in private and public his influence against it. 
He had abstained from the use of tobacco in any form. 

But the cultivated people of the town were accustomed to serve 



170 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

wines at their banquets and dinners. They were not intemperate, but 
they were not total abstainers. 

Norman had been in charge of these Christian workers but a short 
time, when he was invited to a reception at a home where there were 
several young men. A room on the third floor had been set aside as a 
smoking room. Here a number of the men met, Norman among them. 
Without a demur, he partook of the wine and cigars. Both were dis- 
tasteful to him, but he made a pretense of enjoying them. 

Among the guests was an eccentric character, a man of middle age, 
who was known as a non-believer, but who was an intellectual giant, 
fearless in the expression of his opinion and independent in his action. 
This man, Norman had been striving for months to reach. He had 
accomplished so muc'h that the man had listened to his discourses and 
"had debated the subject in private with him. He entered the smoking 
room just as Norman took up his wineglass. The host offered him the 
wine. "You'll bear us company, Mr. Miller?" he asked. 

"You know that I will not," he replied bluntly. "You knew that 
before you asked." 

The others looked up in surprise. Several laughed. 

"Miller acts as though he had been insulted," said one young man, 
"in place of being treated with courtesy." 

"That's just the way I feel about it," retorted Mr. Miller. "To ask 
me. such a question places me in one of two positions ; either as a man 
without an opinion, or a man whose opinion changes with the hour." / 

He crossed the room and seated himself in a comfortable position, 
as he continued. "I've lived in this town sixty years. Allowing the 
first twenty years to be the time when my judgment was not ripe enough 
to have my opinions considered, there yet remains to me about forty 
years of responsible time. Now from the very first, I've been strong 
against this drinking habit, both for the individual and for the nation. 
I look upon liquor as an agent of Satan. I believe more evil has been 
brought into the world through it than by all other means combined. 

"Now, I've believed that for forty years ; I am under the impression 
that I've expressed myself along that line, yet my words must have 
been weak, or our host would not have offered me a wine-glass." 

His hearers felt that he meant every word he said, yet they joined 
in his bland, genial smile which swept the room, embracing everyone 
within it. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 171 

"Either my words were weak, or my friends entertain the opinion 
that I play follow the leader; and I'd as soon be called an imbecile as a 
weakling that does anything because some other fellow does it. No 
wine, no cigars for me." He waved his hand as though to dismiss them 
and the subject. 

As they quitted the mansion, Mr. Miller joined Norman on his way 
home. 

As he placed his hand on the younger man's arm, he said bluntly, 
"I wish to ask you a question. Doesn't the religion you have accepted 
and represent, look with disfavor upon the use of liquors? Did you not 
read to me during our last confidential hour that beautiful sentiment, 
'If meat make my brother to offend'?" 

He looked up inquiringly into his companion's face. He was not in a 
critical mood, nor had he asked the question for the sake of argument. 

"Yes; to all your questions," said Norman. 

"You yourself know it to be the instrument of evil. You know that 
the greater per cent of criminal cases, imbecile children and poverty, are 
the direct cause of its use." 

"Yes, I know that," replied Norman. 

"Then why did you touch it this evening? You told me once that 
you did not know the taste of it. I believed you. But why did you do as 
you did this evening?" 

"I never tasted it before. I have no desire to do so again. But my 
desire is to get closer to those young men. They have never let me 
come near them. I thought if perhaps I should put my own principles 
aside, they would feel free and easier in my presence, and after a time I 
might influence them to accept these same principles and teaching." 

"You never made a greater mistake, my friend. We never can 
elevate anyone by coming down to him. Principle is a thing that cannot 
be lowered. When we think we are doing so, we are satisfying ourselves 
with the semblance of the thing; the principle itself has been lost. 

"As a nation, we did not win respect for our flag by lowering it. 
We kept it flying high and compelled others to look up to it." 

"You believe that your conduct should reflect your belief. Your 
presence alone, sir, without words, should tell a man what you have 
accepted. No man has ever been so morally weak that he did not 
despise moral weakness in another. We love a hero, whatever the way 
his heroism flaunts itself. 



172 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"No, my friend, to-night was your opportunity to come nearer in 
friendship to those young men. You missed it. They are further from 
you than before, and, if I read the stars aright, they will never come 
closer." 

Norman took the advice in good part; but he did not heed it. He 
continued as he had begun. He lowered his standard so frequently that 
it was more often trailing in the wind that floating in the sunshine. His 
influence for good was weakened, for when the desire to fight a good 
fight is awakened within one, even the most evil of mankind, he wishes 
to follow a standard whic'h is never lowered. — Jean K. Baird in Phila- 
delphia Westminister. 

LITTLE BRIDGET. 

It was Sunday afternoon. In a prosperous dramshop in the most 
densely populated district of the city, a crowd of loafers were tossing 
coppers for drinks, singing snatches of street ballads and exchanging 
coarse jests, when a pale, slight child burst into the place, closely pur- 
sued by a virago armed with the rung of a chair. There was a cruel 
purple welt across the little one's forehead, and her eyes were swollen 
with crying. She flew to one of the men, who set her behind the bar 
in safety. 

The woman hurled blasphemy and invectives at the man, and gave 
him a heavy blow with the stick she carried. The piercing cries of the 
terrified child soon brought a policeman to the spot, when the arrest of 
both the man and the woman followed, and they were led away, the 
child meanwhile crouching behind the bar. 

"Now that you've yelled your father and mother into the lock-up, 
get out of here, you little brat!" said the proprietor of the saloon, and 
the girl, a child of less than nine years, shrunk from the place. 

"I guess Mag belts the kid every chance she gets, now," said one 
of the loungers, and another answered: 

"It's a good thing John was sober enough to stand up for her, or 
she'd have been laid out this time sure. The old girl is crazy drunk." 

Meanwhile the little one turned into a by-street which led to her 
home, but she paused at the sound of singing in a neighboring room, 
and, as she stood sadly listening, a lady asked her to enter. The voice 
was gentle, the face kind, and the child laid her hand confidingly in that 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 173 

of her guide and was soon seated beside her and listening to the ever- 
winning, 

Of Jesus and his love." 
"Tell me the old, old story 

There were all classes gathered in that homely room. But of them 
all no one was so sore-hearted and hopeless as little Alice Barney when 
she entered there, and no soul had ever been happier than hers when 
she went away. She was cheered and comforted, and accepted with en- 
tire comprehension and faith the whole of the beautiful old, old story of 
Jesus and his love. 

A simple thing to do, but it changed her whole life. Her eyes 
beamed, her feet seemed to tread on air, she was lifted out of herself, 
and the dreadful world she had known existed for her no longer. 

The next day she learned that her mother had been sent to the 
workhouse for ten days, but her father came home not only sober, but 
ashamed. He found the poor room swept, and upon the table were clean 
cups and plates, with bread neatly sliced and the coffee hot. 

The little girl had lost all her shrinking timidity, and seemed to her 
father a new being. She told the story of her experience at the mission 
school, and in a sweet, fearless way, born of her joy, she said : 

"They are going to tell more of the blessed Jesus on the street to- 
night, father, and there will be singing, too. Will you go with me to 
hear it?" 

"No, child', I am not fit, but you can go and have as much as you 
like of it." 

What need to narrate the work of grace in this little one chosen of 
the Lord? Before her mother returned she was at home with the city 
missionaries, and enlisted heart and soul in the work. 

Her father did not oppose her, though he refused to go with her, 
but her mother was bitter in her denunciation of what she called the 
canting, ranting Christians. Alice, however, with a sweet wisdom and 
courage, went her way. She seemed to be living the lines of Sir Galahad, 

"My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my heart is pure." 

— Selected by Way of Faith. 



174 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

MARRIED TO A DRUNKARD. 

She arose suddenly in the meeting, and spoke as follows: 

"Married to a drunkard ! Yes, I was married to a drunkard. Look 
at me ! I am talking to the girls." 

We all turned and looked at her. She was a wan woman with dark, 
sad eyes, and white hair, placed smoothly over a brow that denoted 
intellect. 

"When I married a drunkard, I reached the acme of misery," she 
continued, "I was young, and oh, so happy I married the man I loved, 
and who professed to love me. He was a drunkard, and I knew it, knew 
it but did not understand it. There is not a young girl in this building 
that does understand it, unless she has a drunkard in her family; then, 
perhaps, she knows how deeply the iron enters the soul of a woman 
when she loves and is allied to a drunkard, whether father, brother, 
husband or son. Girls believe me, when I tell you that to marry a 
drunkard, to love a drunkard, is the crown of all misery. I have gone 
through the deep waters, and I have gained the fearful knowledge at 
the expense of happiness, sanity, almost life itself. Do you wonder my 
hair is white? It turned white in a night — 'bleached by sorrow,' as 
Marie Antoinette said of her hair. I am not forty years old, yet the 
sorrows of seventy rest upon my head; and upon my heart — ah! I 
cannot begin to count the winters resting there," she said, with unutter- 
able pathos in her voice. 

"My husband was a professional man. His calling took him from 
home frequently at night, and when he returned, he returned drunk. 
Gradually he gave way to temptation in the day, until he was rarely 
sober. I had two lovely little girls and a boy." Her voice faltered, and 
we sat in deep silence, listening to her story. "My husband had been 
drinking deeply. I had not seen him for two days. He had kept away 
from his home. One night I was seated beside my sick boy; the two 
girls were in bed in the next room, while beyond, was another room 
into which I heard my husband go, as he entered the house. That 
room communicated with the one in which my little girls were sleeping. 
I do not know why, but a feeling of terror suddenly took hold of me, 
and I felt that my little girls were in danger. 

"I arose and went to the room. The door was locked. I knocked 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 175 

on it frantically, but no answer came. I seemed to be endowed with 
superhuman strength, and throwing myself with all my force against 
the door, the lock gave way, and the door flew open. 

"Oh, the sight! the terrible sight!" she wailed out, in a voice that 
haunts me now; and she covered her face with her hands, and when 
she removed them, it was whiter and more sad than ever. 

"Delirium tremens ! You have never seen it, girls ; God grant you 
never may. My husband stood beside the bed, his eyes glaring with 
insanity, and in his hand a large knife. 'Take them away/ he screamed. 
'The horrible things are crawling all over me. Take them away, I 
say!' and he flourished the knife in the air. Regardless of danger, I 
rushed to the bed and my heart seemed, suddenly to cease beating. 
There lay my children, covered with their life-blood, slain by their own 
father ! For a moment I could not utter a sound. I was literally dumb 
in the presence of this terrible sorrow. I scarcely heeded the maniac at 
my side — the man who had brought me all this woe. Then I uttered 
a loud scream, and my wailing filled the air. The servants heard me 
and hastened to the room, and when my husband saw them, he sud- 
denly drew the knife across his own throat. I knew nothing- more. I 
was borne from the room that contained my slaughtered children and 
the body of my husband. The next day my hair was white and my mind 
was so shattered that I knew no one." 

She ceased! Our eyes were riveted upon her wan face, and some 
one present sobbed aloud, while there was scarcely a dry eye in that 
temperance meeting. So much sorrow we thought, and through no 
fault of her own. We saw that she was not done speaking, and was 
only waiting to subdue her emotion to resume her story. 

"Two years," she continued, "I was a mental wreck; then I 
recovered from the shock, and absorbed myself in the care of my boy. 
But the sin of the father was visited upon the child, and six months 
ago my boy of eighteen was placed in a drunkard's grave; and I 
turned unto my desolate home a childless woman — one on whom the 
hand of God had rested heavily." 

"Girls, it is you that I wish to rescue from the fate that overtook 
me. Do not blast your life as I blasted mine, do not be drawn into 
the madness of marrying a drunkard. You love him ! So much the 
worse for you, for, married to him, the greater will be your misery 



176 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

because of your love. You will marry him and then reform him, so 
you say. Ah ! a woman sadly over-rates her strength when she under- 
takes to do this. You are no match for the giant demon, drink, when 
he possesses a man's body and soul. You are no match for him, I say. 
What is your puny strength beside this gigantic force? He will 
crush you, too. It is to save you, girls, from the sorrow that wrecked 
my happiness, that I have unfolded my history to you. I am a stranger 
in this great city. I am merely passing through it; and I have a 
message to bear to every girl in America — never marry a drunkard." 

I can see her now, as she stood there amid the hushed audience, 
her dark eyes glowing, and her frame quivering with emotion, as she 
uttered her impassioned appeal, then she hurried out, and we never saw 
her again. 

Her words, "fitly spoken," were not without effect, however, and 
because of them, there is one girl single now. — "Touching Incidents and 
Remarkable Answers to Prayer." 

ALLEN BANCROFT'S PLEDGE. 

"So this is our new cabin-boy," soliloquized Lieutenant , as he 

caught sight of a dark-eyed, handsome youth, leaning against the railing 
and gazing with a far-away look at the foamy waves that closed, with 
rushing sweep, white and bubbling in the wake of the swiftly moving 
vessel. "Well, he looks like an interesting subject I'm curious to know 
more about him." 

Soon afterwards rough shouts and laughter attracted the lieutenant 
to the forward deck, where he found a group of sailors trying their 
utmost to persuade the boy to share their grog. 

"Laugh on," Allen was just replying; "but I'll never taste a drop. 
You ought to be ashamed to drink yourselves, much more to offer it 
to another." 

A second shout of laughter greeted this reply, and a sailor, em- 
boldened by the approach of the captain, whom all knew to be a great 
drinker, said: "Now, my hearty, get ready to keel over on your beam 
ends, when you've swallowed this." 

He was about to pour the liquor down Allen's throat, when, quick as 
a flash, the latter seized the bottle and flung it far overboard. At the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 177 

instant, Captain Harden, his face scarlet with rage, grasped the boy's 
arm and shouted: "Hoist this fellow aloft into the maintopsail. I'll 
teach him better than to waste my property !" 

"I'll go myself, captain, said Allen, quietly waving the sailors back, 
"and I hope you will pardon me ; I meant no offense." 

"Faster!" cried the captain, as he saw with what care the boy was 
measuring his steps, for it was extremely dangerous for one unused 
to the sea, to climb that height. Faster Allen tried to go, but his foot 
slipped, and he dangled by his arms in mid-air. A coarse laugh from 
the captain greeted this mishap and a jeer from the sailors, but with 
a strong effort, Allen caught hold of the rigging again and was soon 
in the fatch-basket. 

"Now, stay there, you young scamp, and get some of the spirit 
frozen out of you," muttered the captain, as he went below. But at 
nightfall the lieutenant ventured to say to the captain, who had been 
drinking freely all the afternoon: "Pardon my intrusion, Captain 
Harden, but I'm afraid our cabin boy will be sick if he is compelled 
to stay up there much longer." 

"Sick ! bah ! not a bit of it ; he's got too much grit in him to yield to 
such nonsense; no one on board my ship ever gets sick; all know better 
than to play that game on me. But I'll go and see what he is doing, 
anyhow." 

"Ho, my lad !" he shouted through his trumpet. 

"Ay, ay, sir," was the faint but prompt response, as an eager face 
looked down for release. 

"How do you like your new berth?" was the mocking question. 

"Better than grog or whiskey, sir." 

"If I allow you to come down, will you drink this ?" asked the cap- 
tain, holding up a sparkling glass of wine. 

"I have forsworn all intoxicating drinks, sir, and I will not break 
my pledge, even at the risk of my life." 

"There, that settles it," said the captain to the lieutenant; "he's 
got to stay up there to-night ; he'll be toned down by morning." 

But at dawn there was no response to the captain's "Ho, my lad!" 
When two sailors brought the boy's limp form into his presence, his 
voice softened, as he said : "Here, my lad, drink this glass of warm wine 
and eat the soaked biscuit, and I will trouble you no more." 



178 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Captain Harden," said Allen, in a hoarse whisper, "will you allow 
me to tell you a little of my history?" 

"Go on," said the captain, "but do not think it will change my mind; 
you have to drink this, just to show you how I bend stiff necks on 
board my ship." 

"Two weeks before I came on board this ship, I stood beside my 
mother's coffin. I heard the dull thud of falling earth as the sexton 
filled the grave which held her remains. I saw the people leave the 
spot. I was alone ; yes, alone, for she who loved and cared for me, was 
gone. I knelt for a moment upon the fresh turf; and, while the hot 
tears rolled down my cheeks, I vowed never to taste the liquor that had 
broken my mother's heart and ruined my father's life. Two days later, 
I stretched my hand through the prison bars, behind which my father 
was confined. I told him of my intention to go to sea. Do with me 
what you will, captain ; let me freeze to death in the maintop ; throw me 
into the sea, anything, but do not, for my dead mother's sake, force 
me to drink that poison that has ruined my father and killed my mother. 
Do not let it ruin a mother's son !" 

The captain stepped forward; and, laying his hand, which trembled 
a little, upon the head of the sobbing lad, said to the crew who had 
gathered around: "For our mothers' sake, let us respect Allen Ban- 
croft's pledge. And never," he continued, glancing ominously at the 
sailors, "never let me catch any of you ill-treating him." He then 
hastily withdrew and the sailors went forward. 

"Lieutenant ," exclaimed the bewildered Allen, "what does this 

mean? Is it possible that — that — " 

"That you are free," replied the lieutenant, "and that no one will 
trouble you again." 

"Lieutenant," said the boy, "if I were not so sick and cold just 
now, I think I'd just toss my hat and give three cheers for Captain 
Harden." 

He served on the vessel three years, and became a favorite with all. 
In his presence even the rudest sailor would not dare to utter coarse 
jests, and there was a noticeable decrease in the profanity on board. 
When he left, as the lieutenant tells the story, Captain Harden pre- 
sented Allen with a handsome gold watch as a memento of his night 
in the maintop. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 179 



How well this illustrates Lamartine's saying, that there is only one 
stimulant that never fails and yet never intoxicates — duty. Duty puts 
a blue sky over every man — up in his heart, maybe — into which the 
skylark Happiness always goes singing. — Success. 

MRS. CLAPSADDLE'S EXPERIENCE WITH STUFFLIE'S 
SALTED WHISKY. 

"Dear me !" sighed little Mrs. Clapsaddle, laying down her fork, 
"I certainly do feel dreadful this spring. I don't know when I've felt 
so run down. Nothing tastes good any more." She pushed her plate 
back on the table, and regarded it indifferently. Then she rose, and, 
after giving the food she could not eat to Lucretia Borgia, the cat, 
wearily crossed the room and gazed into the little, plush-framed looking- 
glass. 

"Yes," sighed Mrs. Clapsaddle, sadly shaking her head at her 
reflection, "my looks tell me plainly that I'm feelin' real miserable. 
Dear! dear! I don't know what I shall do. I certainly hate to be 
sick and have a doctor. If I only had an appetite, I wouldn't worry. 
I guess I'll see if I can't dig me some horse-radish this afternoon If I 
can't, I'll get me some mustard." 

Mrs. Clapsaddle, a good, simple-minded, old-fashioned woman, was 
of the opinion that if her stomach did not cry for food, it ought to be 
spurred to do its duty. She did not know that long confinement without 
exercise, in her small, hot, badly ventilated rooms, coupled with im- 
proper food and advancing age, were the causes of her run-down con- 
dition. What she did realize was that never before had she felt so 
thoroughly "out of sorts," and she thought the first thing to do was to 
tone up her stomach with something hot, and then get some medicine. 
That afternoon she pulled and grated some horseradish — a procedure 
that "tuckered her out" completely. Thinking that she would better be 
thorough, while she was about it, she also bought some ground mustard 
and mixed it with vinegar. Under the influence of this fiery combination, 
she became quite sick and much discouraged. Besides, a new ailment 
had appeared — she had a "crick" in her back. 

"Dear me !" she murmured, as she picked up a magazine a friend 
had brought in, "I never felt so blue in my life. Something's got to 



180 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

be done." She began turning the pages in the back of the periodical, 
and suddenly an alluring advertisement caught her eye. "Take Dosem's 
Vivifier for that Tired Feeling," she read. The testimonials of the 
persons that had been cured were very interesting, and she did not 
skip a word. 

"Frawd's Restorative Will Cure You," appeared on the opposite 
page. "Have you tried Pippin's Pain Killer?" next greeted her. Then 
she was informed that "Fakem's Aquazone" would kill every disease 
germ in the body. Plainly, there was no need of suffering longer. Mrs. 
Clapsaddle had never used any patent medicines, but these wonderful 
testimonials decided her to try a bottle of each of those so highly recom- 
mended. But "Dosem's Vivifier" — she would — yes, indeed, she would 
have two of that, for it was the one recommended by the great Dr. 
Maltage, whose sermons she read every week. And Congressman 
Beaver, her own congressman, said he was cured by "Frawd's Restora- 
tive," so it must be fine. 

By the end of the next week, Mrs. Clapsaddle's cupboard shelves 
resembled a miniature drug store. Frawd's Restorative touched shoul- 
ders with Fakem's Aquazone, while Dosem's Vivifier and Pippin's Pain 
Killer crowded each other with claims for recognition. Beside, there 
was a box of "Green Pills for Blue People," which Mrs. Clapsaddle 
thought might be useful as she felt so blue. 

Mrs. Clapsaddle had now only to lie on her lounge when her scanty 
meals were over, take her medicine, and get well. But the medicines 
were a little disappointing. After the delightful exhilaration which fol- 
lowed each dose, a dreadful depression took possession of her, which 
continued until it was time for more medicine. She found herself begin- 
ning to look forward eagerly to the taking of the doses, as they were 
such a relief from that feeling of "goneness" which troubled her. 

"What you need," said her friend Hazel Morton, who called one 
morning with some magazines, "is to stop thinking so much about 
your ailments. It is enough to make anyone sick, living in the house 
all the time, as you do. Get out of doors all you can. The weather will 
soon be warm enough for you to work a little in your garden, and out- 
door air exercise will be better for you than any medicine. Your back 
is well now, is it not?" 

"Yes," admitted Mrs. Clapsaddle, "it got well before I tried the Pain 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 181 

Killer. But I am very weak and nervous. Her faded blue eyes gazed 
wistfully up at the bright vivacious face of the young girl. 

"Oh !" comforted Hazel, "you'll come out all right, I'm sure. If I 
were you, I should quit drinking tea and coffee. What we eat and 
drink has much to do with the way we feel. I have brought you a loaf 
of graham bread ; let me set it in the cupboard. You need not get up." 
As she opened the cupboard doors, the girl's quick eyes caught sight 
of the nostrums, and with difficulty she suppressed the sudden laughter 
that bubbled to her lips. 

"Why," she exclaimed, "it isn't any wonder you are sick. Have 
you really been taking these things all this time, Mrs. Clapsaddle? 
They're fakes, every one of them. That is nothing but cheap whiskey," 
she said, pointing to Frawd's Restorative, "and Dosem's Vivifier is very 
dangerous, for it contains coca as well as alcohol." 

"In this health journal," she went on, turning the pages, "there's a 
department devoted to exposing medical frauds. See this about Fakem's 
Aquazone, for instance, Tt is composed of water with the addition of 
enough sulphuric and sulphurous acids to make it taste sour. It costs 
less than three cents a gallon to produce. Some children have died 
from using it.' And the Green Pills for Blue People are made of green 
vitriol, starch and sugar. It's a wicked shame that you should have 
been fooled into spending money on such things." 

"But there must be good in some of them," objected Mrs. Clap- 
saddle. "Think of the people that have been cured ! See their tes- 
timonials !" 

"Yes," laughed Hazel, "but some of these testimonials have been 
proved to be as big frauds as the medicines. Some are written by silent 
partners in the business ; many are paid for, prominent people receiving 
large sums, and poor people a few dollars or some photographs, or 
some of the medicine. Others are from vain people who love to have 
their pictures in the papers and can't get them in any other way. But, 
Mrs. Clapsaddle, I am learning from these health journals, that if people 
are careful, they will rarely, if ever, need medicine. If you will read 
them, I am sure they will interest and help you." 

"Now, please don't be offended," she pleaded as she arose to go. 
"If you are not vexed with me, promise that you'll go to church with 
me next Sunday if you are able. You ought to be out more: it would 



182 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

cheer you to go to church." "All right," responded Mrs. Clapsaddle, if 
the weather permits, and I feel able, I will go." 

"However, as soon as Hazel had left the house, Mrs. Clapsaddle, 
who was really hurt and offended, pushed the health journals uncere- 
moniously under the lounge. "Just as if Dr. Maltage's testimonial could 
be a fraud ! And all the papers printing his wonderful sermons ! She 
thinks that she knows more than that great man !" And she picked up 
a patent medicine almanac she had got at the drug store, and read over 
the wonderful list of cures once more. In spite of herself, when she 
went next to her medicine shelf, she eyes somewhat suspiciously the 
array of half-empty bottles, feeling almost glad their contents were so 
nearly gone. What if Hazel was right? But she could not be. It was 
impossible that Dr. Maltage and Congressman Beaver should not know. 

When the bottles were all emptied, Mrs. Clapsaddle regretted she 
had not purchased a larger supply, for she knew they were cheaper 
bought in quantity. She was really feeling better ; and, of course, her 
improved spirits and increased appetite must be due to the medicines. 
She never thought of giving the credit to her out-door work in the 
vegetable garden and flower beds. Hazel had been wrong about Dosem's 
Vivifier, anyway. She always felt better after taking that. 

If it had been possible, Mrs. Clapsaddle would have invested with- 
out delay in a new supply of medicine. But the rent had to be met, 
her supply of money was low, and no more pension was forthcoming 
for some weeks. Could she do without medicine for awhile? It would 
be hard, for she felt "all gone" without it. 

Two days passed. Mrs. Clapsaddle was miserably nervous. Her old 
symptoms seemed to be returning. "O, I shall be real sick again if I 
can't have some medicine. What shall I do? I wonder if there is not 
a cheaper kind that would do till I have more money?" 

She picked up the magazine in which she had seen the Vivifier 
advertisement and turned its pages eagerly. But no cheaper medicine 
was offered. With a sigh she dropped the magazine and leaned her 
head upon her hands. A knock at the door awoke her from her reverie. 
She opened the door and peered into the twilight. In a few brisk words 
the visitor told his errand. He was agent for a medical company and 
had learned that she was in poor health, so he called to see if she would 
let him help her. Mrs. C. was naturally suspicious of strangers, but 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 183 

this man's kindness and her own great need caused her to admit him. 
He soon had the poor woman's story of her sickness and her present 
weak feelings for want of medicine. He expressed great sympathy for 
her, and said that his house permitted him to give five bottles free of 
their great remedy for a run-down condition, asking only the person's 
name to a prepared testimonial, saying the medicine had effected a cure. 

Mrs. Clapsaddle was greatly impressed by the philanthropic spirit 
of the medical firm, but when the agent produced the testimonial for her 
to sign, she said, "Why, you don't want me to sign it before I try the 
medicine, do you?" 

"Oh ! that's all right," he answered. "It is sure to cure you ; can't 
fail. You'll soon feel like a different woman." Mrs. Clapsaddle picked 
up the testimonial. With a start she read the heading, "Stuff lie's 
Salted Whisky." "Oh !" she cried, "you did not tell me it was whisky. 
You said it was medicine. I never touched whisky in my life. Why, 
I'm a church member!" 

The man laughed aloud. "My dear woman, didn't you know that 
the Restorative you said did so much good, is just a cheap kind of 
whisky, sweetened and flavored, and the Vivifier is the same with coca 
added? We don't fool the people by calling our whisky any fancy 
names ; we make an article that medical doctors and doctors of divinity 
alike endorse. Ours is no common whisky. It is a medicine. Read what 
these ministers say about it. You're a church member, you say." 

Tremblingly she took the book offered her and read. The whisky 
medicine certainly was endorsed by doctors and ministers. The man 
was not lying. And there, sure enough, was the picture of the minister 
who buried dear John. And he said it cured him. It must be a good 
thing. But she wished they called it by some other name. She looked 
at the name again. "Why do you put salt in it?" she asked. 

"O, salt is a great germ cure, you know. What the whiskey will not 
cure, the salt will, and what the salt won't cure, the whisky will, so you 
see it is perfect. It takes only a very few grains of salt to a bottle. You 
may not notice it, but it's there doing its work." 

It was not so hard to gain Mrs. Clapsaddle's consent to sign the 
testimonial, after she had read the testimony of the minister who buried 

her husband. She hated to do it, but five bottles of medicine free 

why, that was five dollars saved! She would be well before it was all 



184 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

used. So down went the signature in trembling hand, "Mrs: John Clap- 
saddle, 127 Tremaine St." 

The man left one bottle of the "medicine," and said he would send 
the remainder in a few days. 

Hazel Morton, who had been away on a prolonged visit, called upon 
her return to see her friend, and to ask her to go to prayer-meeting. 
Receiving no reply to her knock, she pushed the door open and went in. 
She was greeted by a disheveled woman, walking somewhat unsteadily 
across the floor. 

The unsteady movements, the thick speech, and the unmistakable 
odor, told a pitiful story. Mrs. Clapsaddle was sobered by the shock 
of discovery, and she realized that Hazel understood. She burst into 
a fit of sobbing, and dropped back upon the lounge. "O, Hazel," she 
cried, "the man said it was only medicine, good medicine." 

"Dear Mrs. Clapsaddle," said Hazel, softly touching the trembling 
woman's arm, "I came to ask you to go with me to prayer-meeting, 
but shall we not have a prayer-meeting right here by ourselves, you and 
I? No one shall ever know about — about — O, Mrs. Clapsaddle, I am 
so sorry for you!" 

"I'll do anything you say," she sobbed. "If I had listened to your 
warnings, I would never have done this wicked thing." The young 
girl and the elderly woman kneeled together, and asked help of the 
Great Physician that the craving for alcoholics which had unwittingly 
come upon one of His children, might be removed. 

The next day Hazel brought with her a sweet-faced nurse, who 
stayed with Mrs. Clapsaddle until she felt well enough to be left alone. 

The remaining bottles of "medicine" were broken to pieces in the 
little back-yard. 

The following winter a friend living in California sent Mrs. Clap- 
saddle a Stufflie's Salted Whisky advertisement with a picture of an 
aged woman, and a testimonial bearing her name. The friend asked, 
"Can it be possible that you have aged so rapidly?" The picture was 
that of Mrs. Clapsaddle's grandmother. The agent had abstracted it 
from a pile of old photographs while Mrs. Clapsaddle had been reading 
his booklets. — Tract. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 185 

HANDICAPPED. 

Little Mrs. Winston turned from her tea-table with a sigh of satis- 
faction, pushed aside the heavy window curtain and looked out into the 
twilight of a blustering March day. A trail of pale gold, left by the 
setting sun, was the only gleam of brightness in a sky full of gray clouds, 
scurrying over a world of brown earth and muddy pools, fast skimming 
with ice. She shivered as she came back to the light and warmth within, 
the blazing woodnre on the hearth making a halo of her boy's sunny 
curls as he lay stretched upon a fur rug, poring over a picture book. 

She stooped to lay a light hand on the hot cheek next to the fire, 
moved an armchair to a more inviting angle, and went back to the table. 
Nowhere could a touch improve that. From the glass dish of pussy- 
willows and hardy ferns in the centre, flanked by crisp, lemon-tinted 
lettuce and amber peaches in their lucent syrup, to the shining silver 
service, and the blossom-sprigged china awaiting the hot dishes on the 
kitchen stove, all was perfect. She picked up an uncut magazine and 
laid it down again with the cutter half through the first leaf ; threaded a 
needle with embroidery silk and put it back in her work basket; drew 
her low chair near the larger one in the chimney corner, and piled 
another stock upon the glowing coals. She could settle to nothing. 
Clearly Mrs. Winston was waiting in suspense. "Poor fellow," she 
said, thinking aloud, "he will need all the brightness we can give him," 
and again she sighed, a sigh of sympathy. Her heart was heavy for 
her husband, who had been hastily summoned to the deathbed of a 
brother, in a distant state. From rumors that had come to them for 
several years, it was feared that bereavement was not the saddest feature 
of the trouble in his family. Letters telling of the arrival of her husband, 
and of the death and funeral quickly following, had not lessened these 
fears. 

At last the familiar ring at the doorbell sent her into the hall, eager 
questions on her lips. These died into silence at the sight of a shrinking 
little figure, in a pitifully small suit of mourning, whose hand her hus- 
band held, drawing the child forward, with the words, "I had to bring 
her. I hated to add to your cares, but there was no help for it." 

"Never mind me," she answered, quickly, "I dare say she will be 



186 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

more help than trouble, and Bert will be so glad of a playmate. Now 
we will have tea before either of you go upstairs." 

"Yes, indeed, let us have tea, and how good the oysters smell. I am 
glad you have something hot. I feel as if every drop of blood were a 
separate point of ice pricking my veins." 

Sitting at the table, unable to eat, the little girl had not spoken. 
Bert's shy attempts at making friends with her brought a convulsive, 
sobbing catch in her throat, so distressing that Mrs. Winston waited 
only to pour the tea and attend to her boy's wants before taking the 
child upstairs. 

A little room, opening out of her own, was soon made ready, and 
preparations for bed went on, still in silence. "What is your name, dear 
child?" she asked at last. 

The dark-rimmed eyes were lifted to hers for a moment, but the 
quivering lips could not frame the words to answer. 

"You will not be afraid, or lonely, with the door open," went on 
the soothing voice, "and I can hear if my little girl needs anything 
in the night." 

"I'm mamma's little girl, if I did have to leave her," in a defiant 
tone. 

"O, yes. But all little girls like to visit their aunties, and I have to 
call you that because you do not tell me your name." 

"Edna," in a lower key. 

"You were named for your father, then. I knew him when he was 
a nice little boy, no older than you." 

The child threw herself across the bed with a heartbroken wail, 
"O, papa dear, papa dear ! I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it ! God is not 
good. Papa did not know what he was doing when he was cruel, and 
God does know what He is doing !" 

Mrs. Winston gathered the writhing little form in her arms. "What 
is it, dear child?" 

"The preacher said no drunkard could enter heaven. Papa was so 
bonny when he was good, and we loved him so ! He used to hurt 
mamma when he wasn't himself, hurt mamma. But we wouldn't punish 
him forever and ever. We would remember how nice he was some- 
times. Say it isn't true, auntie." 

"Can you listen to me, Edna?" holding the thin, trembling hands in 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 187 

her soft grasp. A movement of the head on her arm assented. ''God 
is good. Mamma and you loved papa, but you could not help him?" 

A dreary "No" answered. 

"You saw him grow worse and worse every day. God loves him 
more, far more than anyone else can, and he has taken papa out of a 
world where he would never be any better. God loves and knows how 
to help. Let us trust papa to that great and wise love." 

When the long-drawn sobs had ceased in sleep, Mrs. Winston went 
down stairs to find her boy asleep on the couch, her husband cowering 
over the fire. Hastily clearing the tea-table she had set with so much 
pride, she drew her low chair to her husband's side and waited for his 
version of the dreadful story she had heard upstairs. 

"It was worse than we thought," he began. "Nothing was left, 
even for necessaries. The whole family were ragged and famished. 
Neighbors had brought in food and coal before I arrived. There was 
not a trace of my brother in the bloated face we shut away under the 
coffin lid." 

"If you had only known sooner ! But they were so far away." 

"I could not have helped him. It was all his own fault. On her 
deathbed my mother reminded us of the birthright of evil we had 
inherited, and begged us never to awaken the sleeping appetite. We 
promised. I met every offer of the stuff by frankly avowing the pledge 
to mother. I had to endure some good-natured banter and some ill- 
mannered sneers, but a laugh often turned both aside. Ned would 
flush up in wrath, making himself a fit subject for teasing." 

"But he was standing firm when I last knew him ; before I left our 
home village." 

"Yes, and such a foolish thing kindled the flame at last; a sudden 
fancy for a city guest in a friend's house, when he had really loved 
another from childhood. The city girl was bright and attractive; she 
liked to show her power over him, and he gave way to her tempting offer 
of a glass of wine, again and again. She soon went away, caring nothing 
for him, but his ruin was sure, even then. He tried to rally time after 
time, only to fail under the many temptations around him. The girl 
he loved was willing to risk her life with his, she had always loved him. 
He married and went to a prohibition state, but he was not safe even 
there. Prohibition does not prohibit in the drug store and doctor's 
office." 



188 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Where are his family now?" 

"A brother of his wife wanted the boy, a winning little fellow. His 
wife went home to her mother with the baby. No one wanted the girl. It 
was more than hinted to me that I could well afford to take her, having 
no daughter of my own." 

"I am not sorry to have a girl in the house, to bear me company 
when my boy asserts his sex by insisting upon living out doors." 

"You would not confess, if you were sorry," he answered with a 
smile, caressing the face upturned to his. 

She exclaimed at the hot touch of his hand and hurried him off to 
bed. When she came to him, after settling Bert for the night, he was 
shaking in a chill. A doctor was called, who at once spoke the dreaded 
word — pneumonia. 

The days that followed were like a confused dream to the anxious 
wife. She hardly noticed the children, though she was dimly con- 
scious that Edna kept her boys busy and content by the arts so aptly 
learned in a drunkard's home. Stopping once to kiss the child, she 
was surprised by a passion of sobs, when she said, "Auntie sees how 
you are trying to help her, but she cannot stay now to tell you how 
much she loves you for it." 

"I am not a burden you will soon get rid of, as Uncle Tom said 
you would, when he came to take brother away." 

"You shall never go until mamma says she rrlust have you again. 
But Uncle Bob needs all my time now, I must go to him." 

With slow-dropping, thankful tears, Mrs. Winston heard at last a 
word of hope from the doctor's lips. "But you must take the greatest 
care," he cautioned. "Give him a spoonful of brandy every hour." 

"He cannot take it," she cried in dismay. "Isn't there something 
else?" 

"Nothing else will tide him over the next few days. He may go off 
like a flash without it. I am a temperance man myself, but in such a 
case, foolish scruples must be laid aside." 

"He would not take it, if he knew." 

"It would be suicide to refuse. If you care so little for your hus- 
band's life, I care for my professional reputation, which is at stake." 

She gave way at the cruel words. She could stand firm by herself, 
but her husband's life was more to her than her own. 

The spoonful of brandy was but a beginning. Strength was slow 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 189 

in returning, and he must have a bottle of beer to quicken his digestion ; 
when able to again take up his business cares, he came home so 
exhausted, a glass of wine was necessary to restore him. His wife's 
gentle warnings and entreaties sent him to outside sources for the 
stimulants his awakened appetite craved. A year had not passed before 
it was a common thing for him to come home so under the influence 
of liquor, he had to sleep it off before appearing in his family. He was- 
always good-tempered, but wife and boy shrank from his maudlin 
caresses. Edna always gave a sigh of relief when he was safely asleep. 
She knew what it was to dread violence. 

Penitence and promises followed, when the stupor was over, but 
such a little thing would bring about his fall again; an invitation to 
drink, from a friend, the sight of beer bottles at a saloon door, the flavor 
of brandy in the pudding sauce, when dining away from home, the sip 
of wine at the communion table, all served to shatter the most solemn 
pledges. 

Perhaps the hardest to bear happened one spring day, when 'hope 
was stronger, because of temptation resisted for a longer period than 
ever before. Bert had been ailing, and as Mrs. Winston was passing 
along the street, she met her pastor's wife, who spoke of the boy's 
pallor. "He needs a tonic," she said. "I always make my own black- 
berry wine and will send you a bottle." 

"Bert is almost well," answered the mother quickly. "His cough 
will wear off with warmer weather." 

"I shall send a bottle to hasten the cure," insisted the lady, and 
Mrs. Winston was too timid to speak out the indignant remonstrance 
surging within. She blamed herself all the afternoon for not making 
the refusal more decided. 

Edna met her at the door, in the tempest of tears to which she so 
rarely gave way. Inside, her husband lay on the bed in a heavy sleep of 
drunkenness. On the couch her boy was gasping in the throes of a 
fit of nausea. When he was relieved and sleeping lightly in her arms, 
she listened to the story the little girl told between her sobs. 

"Mrs. Wilde came to the door with a bottle, and Uncle Rob went 
out to see her. When he came back, he mixed a glassful of something out 
of the bottle with sugar and water, for Bert. He didn't like it, and 
uncle said I must coax him to take it. He said I could do it if I wasn't 
so stubborn. Uncle Rob doesn't love me, auntie. When I cried, Bert 



190 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

swallowed the stuff, and in a little while it made him so sick. O auntie, 
is he poisoned? Will he die?" 

"He is indeed poisoned, but the first time will not kill him. Where 
is the bottle?" 

"Uncle drank the rest of it and went out. He came in — like he 
is now." 

The poor man blamed no one but himself. "I wanted to taste the 
thing, and, for an excuse, mixed a dose for Bert, as the woman left 
directions for you. It maddened me to see the children shrink from me 
and refuse to obey. It is true, I cannot bear the girl; she reminds me 
of that fatal journey." 

"Shall we send her to her mother?" 

"No. That would do me no good, and I can see she is a comfort 
to you and the boy. The mite has been through it all before, and is 
wise beyond her — size." 

Bert awoke in terror. "I did not know I was breaking my pledge, 
mamma. Must I go on like papa and Uncle Ned? Edna is afraid I 
will." 

"No, my boy! A soldier does not give up the battle with the first 
wound. We will fight on, and God will help." 

"I do not like the taste of it, mamma. The thought of it makes 
me sick." 

"We'll thank God for that." 

"And, mamma, when I'm a man I mean to be a doctor, and help 
people fight against the dreadful thing when they are too sick to fight for 
themselves." 

For ten years the struggle lasted. Then another attack of pneu- 
monia found Robert Winston without strength to resist its inroads. 
When the end came, the love-light shone again in his eyes, as he opened 
them for the last time upon those of his wife, dimmed with tears, 
kneeling beside him. 

"Be glad for me, sweetheart," he whispered, "and glad for your- 
self. This is the only way out of the disgrace — and the sin." 

"God knows you could not help it, dear one !" 

"And He has come now with the only help. Good-night." — A story 
from real life in tract. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 191 



A PAYING RESULT. 

The landlady looked at him disapprovingly. Young men would be 
young men, she knew that, but she had hoped better things of this one, 
who came to her with such clear eyes, with such a clean, ruddy com- 
plexion, and so carefully groomed, that it was a pleasure to look at him. 

"You are late this morning," she said, with unconscious severity. 

"Yes," he answered, sulkily, "a fellow can't be up half the night 
and out with the larks." 

"That's the trouble with you, I guess — too much lark," she replied, 
with grim pleasantry. "You'd better cut it out, my lad. I have boys 
myself, and I know how mothers feel." 

The young man winced. Better than she could tell him, he knew 
how his mother would have felt to hear him stumbling up to his room 
in the small hours of the night, but she should never know if he could 
help it. Already weak resolutions were forming in his befogged brain to 
"cut it out," as the landlady had said, and he looked up at her with 
an unsteady smile. "You bet I will, Mrs. Parks. No more wine sup- 
pers for yours truly." 

Mrs. Parks sighed as she went about her work. Even to her not 
over critical mind, the slang and tone in which it was uttered showed the 
deterioration in the young man's character quite as clearly as the blood- 
shot eyes, and downcast, shamed look on his flushed face. "Too bad — 
too bad," she mused. 

Two years ago Harry Bray ton had come to this larger town from 
an inland village, to work in a bank as junior clerk. He had been so 
proud of his position, so sure of working up and earning promotion, 
that at first he had bent every energy to doing his work well, and 
pleasing his employers. He had been brought up to be a total abstainer, 
but, unhappily for him, the bank force was made up mainly of "society 
men." 

A drunkard would not have been tolerated among them for a 
moment, but the moderate drinker, the fellow who could toss off a few 
glasses of wine of an evening and do his work the next day, was their 
ideal of strength, and the atmosphere insensibly affected the younger and 
untried man. 

Several saloonkeepers were customers of the bank, and his duties as 
collector led him often into their places of business, so, little by little, 



192 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

his "prejudices of education," as the cashier called temperance prin- 
ciples, were undermined, and he began to accept the treats so freely 
offered, at first with reluctance, but later on with evident pleasure. 

"He's coming to it fine," said the barkeeper, with a wink to the 
proprietor, as Harry left the place one day, wiping his lips. "Don't have 
to urge him now. He'll make a valuable customer before long." 

These were not the dens where such unspeakable things were done, 
that even the mayor had to take notice occasionally, but respectable, 
high-toned places, where a gentleman could go in and out without 
reproach. 

Harry had been a church-goer in the home town, but here it was 
different. Work was strenuous on Saturdays, and "the boys" usually 
had something planned for Sunday quite foreign to church, and the bells 
which at first caused him uneasiness of conscience, now scarcely 
awakened a thought. The downward road is a long and easy slope for 
some, but for others a toboggan slide, swift, and terribly certain as to 
the end. 

"Mother, I feel worried about Harry," said Nettie Brayton one 
morning, as the two sat together at the breakfast table. "He hasn't 
written for weeks, and when we see him, it is for so short a time, that 
we know almost nothing of his real self." 

A sigh escaped Mrs. Brayton. "I know, Nettie," she replied sadly. 
"I feel that I am losing my boy, but what are we to do?" 

"If you can spare me, mother, I would like to go down and spend 
a week with him," replied Nettie thoughtfully. "Surely in that time 
I should learn something of his inner life, for we have always been 
chums. Next Sunday is Temperance Sunday, and I would like to see its 
observance in a large town." 

So it came about that, when Harry came home to his six o'clock 
dinner that memorable day, an eager face peeped out of the shabby little 
parlor, and seeing him alone, two loving arms were thrown around his 
neck, and a warm kiss pressed his feverish lips. "Why Nettie, why 
didn't you let a fellow know you were coming?" he stammered in his 
surprise and chagrin, for he could not help realizing that he was not a 
fit object for a sister's pure kiss. He had just thrown away the stub of 
a cheap cigar, and last night's excess was yet in evidence in his breath. 

"I wanted to surprise you. Don't you remember how we used to 
play surprise when we were little tads together?" 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 193 

Harry was really glad to see his sister, after the first shock of the 
meeting was over, but her heart sank as the truth came home to her of 
the sad change in him since he had left home, and she fell on her knees 
by her bedside in an agony of weeping, when at last she was shown to 
her room for the night, as she realized what this knowledge she had 
gained would mean to her mother. She was a Christian girl, and prayer 
her first recourse in time of trouble. "O pitiful Christ, spare my brother 
and give him back to us," she sobbed. 

"I'm glad you've come, miss," said the somewhat voluble Mrs. 
Parks, next day. Harry had eaten a hasty breakfast and hurried away. 

"The boss'll kick if I'm not on time, but amuse yourself till after 
lunch, Sis, and I'll get out early and chase the elephant with you this 
afternoon," he had said, as he kissed her good-bye. He had made a 
careful toilet, and seemed more like himself after his night's rest. 

Mrs. Parks was sitting in his vacant chair, her elbows on the table 
in a confidential mood. "I have boys of my own, and I have a mother's 
feelings when young men that are away from home come into my house. 
I took a liking to your brother from the first, and I says to my husband, 
'There's a boy that's been brought up by a good mother, and taught to 
do right, and I know it.' He was that clean and nice about the house — 
but I don't like that crowd he trains with now, and that's the truth. 
Society swells, with their money and their loose ideas, aren't very safe 
examples for a young man who has his way to make in the world, but 
they never seem to think. To have a rollicking good time, and get 
just as near the edge of the pit as they can and not fall in head foremost, 
seems to be all they care about." 

"You are right, Mrs. Parks," Nettie said, as her entertainer paused 
for breath. "Harry and I have been brought up carefully by the dearest 
and best of mothers, but even a mother cannot follow her boy out into 
the cruel world; she can only pray — and weep, when she must," and 
tears filled the sister's eyes. 

"I'm not saying that your brother is as bad as some of the rest 
of them," interposed Mrs. Parks hastily, at sight of the tears, "but he is 
in danger, anyone can see that. When a young fellow gets where he 
isn't afraid of the saloons, and of wine suppers, he has lost his best 
hold. I hope you can help him." 

With all her heart Nettie echoed the kindly wish, and by every 



194 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

means in her power she strove to bring the wholesome influences of home 
upon him in the days which followed. 

"I'll tell you how it happened., Net, that you caught me looking and 
feeling so like a bum that day you came," he said, one evening. "I 
ought not to have gone to that wine supper, I know that now; but it 
was the first really swell function I had ever had a chance at. Ten 
dollars a plate and all that sort of thing, you know, and when the 
governor passed around free tickets to some of us — a sort of reward 
of merit for good, little boys, you see — why, I was just too tickled to 
think straight, and climbed into my glad rags as fast as I could, and 
went along." 

"Who is the governor, Harry?" Nettie asked, innocently. 

"Why, Mr. Nash, the president," Harry colored uneasily, for he 
knew his sister was not so ignorant as she seemed. "Of course, there 
were muffs there who turned down their glasses and didn't even drink 
their lemon punch, but somehow I'm not built that way." 

"I wish you were, Harry, with all my heart," replied Nettie, sadly. 
"I wish you could refuse the evil and deliberately choose the good before 
men." 

"A fellow might as well be out of the world as in it and not do as 
others do," remarked Harry, pettishly. 

"Were those 'muffs' you speak of, so very low down in the social 
scale ?" 

"No, not exactly," Harry admitted reluctantly. "Judge Lane, Senator 
Ince, and others ; your pious sort, all of them." 

"Yet I do not think they were disgraced because they could walk 
straight when they went home," said Nettie, with a sigh. "Our dear 
father would have been a 'muff' in the same place ; are you more manly 
than he?" 

"I shall never be half the man my father was," Harry replied, 
gloomily. "Talk about something else, Nettie. I'm getting into the 
dumps." 

"Do you know what mother found in father's diary — in his own 
handwriting, and almost the last entry he had ever made?" 

"What was it?" asked Harry. 

" 'My dear, dear boy. How I wish that I might bind upon his 
heart that most true and important scripture, "Look not upon the wine 
when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup — in the end it biteth 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 195 

like a serpent and stingeth like an adder." ! You see, father was loving 
you, fearing for you even then." 

"Don't, Net. You break my heart " cried Harry in a strange, 

muffled voice, as he arose and went to the window, where he stood 
looking out into the night with unseeing eyes. 

It was a difficult town in which to preach the gospel of temperance, 
yet the faithful who were true to their trust, never gave up. 

The recent wonderful victories in state and counties had made the 
cause more popular of late, and the W. C. T. U. women were making an 
extra effort to bring the subject home to the people on World's Tem- 
perance Sunday as they had never done before. 

"The trouble is, that there won't be a blessed soul there that needs 
it," remarked Mrs. Cummings, regretfully. "Only the Christian people 
who have heard temperance texts and temperance teaching since their 
infancy." 

"I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Cummings," replied the president of 
the union, Mrs. Hicks. "We may never know, but I think there is much 
good done by our public meetings. In union is strength, you know, and 
the solid front shown to the enemy is a power for good in itself." 

"Well, I'm ready to face the enemy, if it's front you want," laughed 
Mrs. Cummings, who was a large, finely proportioned woman, "and 
I'll do more than that if you can trace up any real results from the 
effort. I'll give ten dollars to the cause for every case you find." 

"I hope we can bankrupt you, Mrs. Cummings," cried Mrs. Hicks 
joyfully, "and you may be sure we shall be out with a searchlight after 
the day is over." 

Although nearly all the pastors of the city had promised to preach 
along specific temperance lines, yet it was thought best to concentrate 
on one particular church and unite in its service for the day. It was 
the church of the denomination to which Nettie belonged, and she was 
looking forward to the service with hopeful anticipation. 

It was a very beautiful church and to-day it was profusely decorated 
with white satin ribbons as for a bridal. There were reserved seats near 
the front, and presently the temperance forces came marching in, while 
the organist played a stirring voluntary. There were young and old 
among them, and all wore the white ribbon, the emblem of temperance 
and purity. Tears came into Nettie's eyes as she whispered to Harry, 
"How I wish that mother were here to enjoy it with us." 



196 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE __^ 

In the rear of the house, near the door, sat a man who would attract 
attention anywhere, by his fine, intelligent face and commanding figure. 
He was a stranger in the churches of the town, and he could not him- 
self account for the impulse which had led him to come in and take a 
seat to-day, but having come, he looked around with an interested eye 
and alert ear. Beside him sat a fine, manly boy, and it may have been 
the passion of the child for music which had lured him, for the eyes of 
the boy were fixed eagerly upon the great organ and its player, and 
later upon the throng of white-ribboned women. 

"Say, father, we don't have anything like that down at The Cabin, 
do we?" 

The father shook his head. "No, son. Hush, kiddie, the folks'll 
hear you." 

There was a story wrapped up in the seemingly simple incident of 
the father and son coming to church that particular day, for the father 
was a bartender in one of the saloons of the city, though how he had 
drifted into such an ignoble business was a wonder to those who knew 
him. Upright and honest, strictly temperate, it seemed a terrible 
anomaly to see such a man handing out to others the dangerous stuff 
which he so carefully avoided himself. 

The boy's bright eyes sought his father's eagerly, as the pastor read 
the Scripture, "Woe unto him who putteth the bottle to his neighbor's 
lips," and he crept closer to his side with a loving, protective gesture as 
the reading went on. The pastor was terribly in earnest, and his words 
fairly burned into the consciences of two of his audience, as he poured 
out his heart in an eloquent denunciation of the evils of drink selling 
and of drink buying. 

Nettie could feel Harry's form tremble beside her, as the sermon 
aroused his slumbering conscience to an almost white heat. It was 
such a sermon as his father would have preached to him, had he been 
living, and it came to him with a strange power that day, as if he were 
the only one in the crowded church to whom the pastor was speaking. 

There was an opportunity at the close of the service for any one 
who wished to sign the pledge. "The merest formality," whispered Mrs. 
Cummings to her neighbor. "As if any one would have the courage to 
rise up in this respectable crowd and proclaim himself in need of a 
pledge." 

"You doubting Thomas !" replied her companion, and even as she 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 197 

spoke, a young man arose and walked up to the table, his face white, 
his hands trembling with excitement. Nettie hesitated a moment, then 
arose and followed him, and together they signed the pledge that meant 
so much to them both. Others followed, but in all the large congregation 
there was probably not another one who needed the protection of the 
pledge more than Harry Brayton. 

"I want to thank you for this service, and for what it has done for 
my dear brother," said Nettie, her eyes moist, her voice trembling with 
deep feeling, as she addressed Mrs. Hicks. A member of the Young 
Men's Bible class had captured Harry for the Sunday School hour, and 
the two were standing alone together. "He is alone in the city, and he 
— needed it so. May I ask if you will mother him a little, you tem- 
perance ladies? He is not bad — only away from home and " her 

voice failed altogether. 

"Indeed we will, dear girl. Take heart, my child, for there must be 
much of good in your brother, else he would not have taken the public 
stand he did." 

They gathered around her, the white ribbon mothers and sisters, 
with kindly words of cheer and hopefulness, and Nettie's heart was 
lighter than it had been for weeks, as she listened. The pastor was at 
the entrance as the congregation passed out, and the man with the little 
boy lingered for a word, as the minister pressed his hand. 

"Thank you for the sermon, sir," he said. "You have put an old 
subject before me in a new light. I should like to call upon you when 
you are at liberty." 

It was a touching story the pastor heard the following evening in 
the quiet of his study. Of aspirations unrealized, and hopes deferred. 
"I was never taught to see the wickedness of it when I was a boy," he 
said humbly, "and when I was offered a fine paying position with easy 
work under such circumstances, can you wonder that I accepted it?" 

"No, no, sir. Some of us who are better trained might not have 
done any better," replied the pastor, with ready sympathy, "but now 
that you see the evil, what will you do?" 

"The Lord knows, sir, I don't," shaking his head disconsolately. 
"The expert mixer of drinks has been my trade for years I know no 
other — I never touch the stuff myself, so I have not the appetite to 
overcome, but what can I do ?" 

"You are strong and capable," the pastor looked at his caller with 



198 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

admiration. "Why, man, if I had your splendid physique, I should feel 
able to conquer the world." 

"It takes more than physique to keep soul and body together, sir. 
I have two little boys and a wife depending on me for support, and it 
is a question of dollars and cents as well as of principle." 

"You are right, quite right, and I will stir myself at once and see 
what I can do to help." 

"Any honest work, no matter how hard, that I can earn a living 
at," said the man with wistful gratitude, and then the pastor touched 
the deeper strings of his heart with tender, reverent hand, and found 
them strangely responsive. 

Mrs. Cummings paid over two glittering ten-dollar gold pieces, 
fresh from the mint, as a special compliment to the occasion, and did 
so gladly and willingly. "I wish it might have been more," she said 
earnestly, "for what are dollars compared with such splendid results as 
these?" 

"And on the other hand, it takes dollars to bring results, and I can 
see where every penny of this can be used to the very best advantage," 
replied Mrs. Hicks, as she passed the money over to the smiling 
treasurer. — Mrs. F. M. Howard in Union Signal. 

TIMMY FLANNIGAN AND HIS PROMOTION. 

About twenty years ago this experience came into my life, when 
I was a teacher in a primary school in Maine. My brother was school 
superintendent at the time, and of course, as he visited the different 
schools, he saw many bright, wide-awake boys. But Timmy Flannigan, 
a boy about nine years of age, attracted him especially. No matter 
what the question, Timmy knew what to reply ; no matter how long the 
column of figures, Timmy was always the first to give the right answer. 
This was rather discouraging to the other scholars, so one day Mr. C, 
the superintendent, said: 

"Now, Timmy, you keep still awhile. I can't find out how much 
the other boys and girls know, if you answer all the questions." 

Tim obeyed, but it was hard work, and his eyes fairly danced with 
excitement and impatience. 

At last came the end of the school year. When the examinations 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 199 

were over, Timmy Flannigan's name was the first on the list of those 
promoted to the next higher grade. A dainty diploma for each scholar 
had been prepared by the teacher, and when Mr. C. passed Timmy's to 
him, his "I thank you" was heard throughout the large school-room, he 
felt so proud and happy. 

As Mr. C. was returning to his home that day, he met Mr. Flan- 
nigan, Tim's father, a hard-working man, employed at good wages in 
one of the large cotton mills. Though naturally a warm-hearted man, 
Mr. C. knew that he loved liquor better than anything else in the 
world, and most of his earnings found their way to the saloon-keeper's 
pocket. So, in the faint hope of arousing him to some sense of his duty 
towards his family, he stopped to speak to him. 

"Mr. Flannigan, do you know you have one of the brightest and 
most promising boys in town? You must do well by him, keep him at 
school, give him every possible chance for an education, and in years 
to come he will repay it all." 

"Indeed, now, but I mean to do that same thing, Mr. C. I am going 
to have that boy graduate at Bowdoin College, sure as I live. He shall 
have a better education than his poor, old father had. Thank you for 
your good words about him, sir. 

Saying this, he turned the next corner and went into the first saloon. 

Four hours later, Timmy was working at home, helping to care for 
the little Flannigans, of whom there were five besides himself, when he 
suddenly heard footsteps stumbling up the stairs. His mother called out 
to him in anxious tones which he knew only too well: 

"O Tim, your father's bad again ! Keep out of his way, for when 
he is like this, there's no knowing what he will do." 

Trembling with fear, Tim hastened to escape, but the motherly 
warning had come too late. Even as she spoke, Mr. Flannigan had 
caught sight of the boy at the head of the stairs, and, imagining in his 
drunkenness, that he was in his way, he lifted his heavy boot, gave one 
kick, and dear, bright, helpless little Timmy lay a crippled mass upon 
the floor below. 

His mother gave one terrified scream and fainted; the father stag- 
gered stupidly along into the bedroom, where he fell in a drunken sleep 
upon the floor. Kind neighbors gathered in haste, lifted the poor lad 
in their arms, and carried him to his bed. The doctors soon arrived. 



200 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Concussion of the brain," was all they said; then they went carefully 
to work to see what could be done for the little sufferer. 

While they were setting the broken arm and leg, attending to the 
scalp wound, and binding up the little hand upon which two fingers 
r were broken, the father, who had promised to do so much for his boy, 
was sleeping a drunken sleep, unconscious of the terrible crime he had 
committed. Many reproaches were hurled at the senseless form, but 
nothing could be done to avert the consequences of the act. 

Weeks passed, and Timmy was at last able to get about the town on 
crutches. But it was not the same Timmy who had received his 
diploma with such joy only a few short weeks before. All the bright- 
ness was gone from his face. That cruel kick had stolen his brain. 

The fall term had commenced, and one morning, as I sat in my 
school-room, I heard the sound of crutches in the entry. I went to the 
door, and there stood Timmy. In response to my smile, he muttered, 
"Tim — school — boys — Tim." "Yes," I said, "we all want you, Tim; 
come in." He shambled in as best he could, fell in a chair, and gazed 
vacantly about. I went on with the lesson as usual, but it was all a 
mystery to poor little Tim. When he tried to talk, the result was only 
a few disconnected words ; it was impossible for him to frame a sentence. 

Day after day he visited my school, making no trouble in any way, 
but you can imagine what a temperance lesson, what a lesson of love, 
of kindly sympathy, of continued thoughtfulness and generosity, his 
daily visits were ! There was an object lesson, indeed ! The scholars 
vied with each other in doing for him — a pair of shoes one day, a 
pretty necktie the next, and toys, fruit and flowers in abundance. I 
could tell you of many sacrifices made by these little children for poor, 
helpless Tim. 

At last we missed his accustomed visits, and upon inquiry I found 
he was sick with typhoid fever, from which his mother had just died. 
The other members of the family were being cared for by strangers, the 
wretched father was in jail, and there was no place for Timmy but the 
town farm. He was tenderly cared for there. My little scholars kept 
him supplied with fruit and flowers, and whenever they went to see 
him, he would say, "Tim — boys — Tim." 

As the weeks passed, he grew weaker and weaker. One day an old 
woman who had lived at the farm many years, was holding him in her 
arms and crooning to him in a quavering voice: 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 201 

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, 
Look upon a little child." 

Those who stood near, said a look almost of intelligence passed over 
his face. He smiled; he was not suffering, and if he were thinking, his 
thoughts were happy; no clouds obscured his vision of the heavenly 
home. I think he had a glimpse into the "Home Beautiful," where 
cruelty and bitter wrongs are not known, and where his plaintive cry 
of "Tim — boys — Tim" was answered by the group of boys who had 
gone on before him. 

Poor little Timmy. His time of rejoicing had come, for he had a 
glorious promotion, 

"Unto that school, 
Where he no longer needs our protection. 
And Christ Himself doth rule." 

— By Margaret Arnold, in Zion's Herald. 

REBELLION OF "FRONT NO. 3." 

The big hotel swarmed with guests, and Front No. 3 certainly had 
enough to keep him busy. At least, it seemed to him as if the clerk's bell 
was never quiet. People were continually coming and going, thronging 
the corridors, and keeping everybody connected with the house running 
and hurrying about with trunks, valises, bags, messages and errands of 
all sorts. Front No. 3 had his share. He was the new bell boy, but he 
promised to be of the right sort, as he proved to be alert and quick to 
learn. 

Senator Robinson, the idol of the district, was coming to town, and 
he was booked for a banquet and a speech-making in Parlor A that 
very night, and everybody from far and near had been invited to attend 
and meet the great man. It seemed as if the big register would not 
hold all the names of those who made application for rooms. When 
the clerk began reluctantly turning people away, Front No. 3 knew that 
the only vacant rooms left in the hotel were those that had been reserved 
for the occupancy of the Senator and his friends. 

The morning had almost passed, when a cheer went up from the 
crowd that had gathered outside the doors, and when a large, genial- 
faced man entered, everybody at once became aware that the Senator 
had arrived. The new boy did not stare, much as he would like to, but 



202 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

ran to his side in an instant to take charge of the hand luggage, a 
privilege that the other fellows would almost have fought for, had they 
not happened to be in various parts of the hotel on as many errands at 
the time. 

"Show the Senator his rooms, Front," was the word. 

The boy obeyed with alacrity, and the elevator man performed his 
little part with all due dignity. Showing every required courtesy and 
service, Front No. 3 safely bestowed the distinguished guest in his 
room and was backing in the direction of the door, when the Senator 
stopped him. "Boy, bring up a bottle of whiskey, some water and 
glasses." 

The shoulders of Front No. 3 straightened almost imperceptibly and 
his eyes grew suddenly tense. He had not planned for anything quite 
like this. He had thought the waiters would be called upon for any- 
thing of that sort. But here was a guest, a great man in the eyes of the 
people of the district and state, asking a temperance boy for whiskey, 
and poor little Front No. 3 was stunned a little and started to hesitate. 

The Senator noticed the momentary silence, and glancing up from a 
letter he held in his hand, said a bit impatiently: 

"Well, that's all." 

The bell boy found his voice, and "dared to be a Daniel" yet again. 

"I'm sorry, sir." 

"Well, sorry for what? What's the matter — no whiskey in the 
house ? Or, what's the trouble. Out with it." 

Few boys could prevent themselves from trembling in their shoes 
with a difficulty of this sort presented and in such a presence. Front 
No. 3 trembled and looked sadly confused, but he managed to lift his 
eyes as he bravely said : 

"The trouble is, sir, I've made a promise, and I can't break it if I 
lose my place — no, not for the President of the United States." 

It was the Senator's turn to be somewhat astounded now, though he 
laid aside his letter and gazed at the boy with more curiosity than dis- 
pleasure in his face. 

"Why, boy, what do you mean? What are you here for in this 
hotel? Have you been here long? I ought to be angry with you and 
send a complaint to the office. But — well there, I am accustomed to 
have folks speak up when they have a grievance. I'm waiting." 

"I confess I am a new boy, sir, and I never expected to be called 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 203 

upon to order intoxicating liquors or I never should have tried for the 
place. But I suppose it's all up with me now. I can't take your order 
downstairs, sir." 

"Tell me why," temporized the Senator, with something like amuse- 
ment on his face. 

Front No. 3 almost broke down at this question, but he answered 
half sobbingly: 

"My father died in delirium tremens, and I have a brother in prison 
for drinking and gambling, so that I am doing my best to help support 
my mother. I go to Sunday school, where I have made a promise never 
to touch, taste nor handle strong drink of any sort." 

"Well, I don't believe you ever will, my boy," replied the Senator, 
encouragingly, "if you always exhibit the sort of courage you are show- 
ing now. It is unusual, and to be honest with you, I haven't anything 
like animosity toward you for making such a manly stand. I'm always 
glad to meet such a boy, but I certainly never expected to meet one here. 
Someone ought to have told you that you would be called upon to order 
drinks for guests, because most people would not be likely to take your 
refusal so easily. Still, I am always willing to learn from anyone, and 
by the way, you have suddenly reminded me of something that I had 
nearly forgotten. I do not drink myself, but when my friends call, they 
generally expect liquor of some sort. They must do without it to-day. 
So, if you will just order some water and glasses, you may consider 
yourself the winner." 

To say that the "winner" was overcome, would be putting it rather 
mildly. He ejaculated, "Oh, thank you, Senator Robinson," and was 
moving away, when 1 

"Hold on," called the Senator. "You won't be able to stay here, you 
know, with the principles you hold. I know where just such a boy as 
yourself is badly needed. Give me your address and I'll not forget." 

When the little rebel who had won so startling a victory went to the 
office and surrendered his position, it was only to accept, later on, an 
enviable position, of trust in a hospital of the Senator's own founding. 
The Senator looked out for him, and Front No. 3 is a temperance 
physician and surgeon to-day, owing to his success to his not forgetting 
his pledge under any circumstances whatever. — Frank Walcott Hutt in 
Youth's Temperance Banner. 



204 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

HIS OWN WAY. 

"You're too strict and particular about trifles, mother. To be a 
broad-minded, whole-souled man, a fellow must be blind to a lot of 
things his conscience doesn't exactly approve." 

"You are mistaken, my boy. There is never a call for a true man 
to do anything of which he would be ashamed in any company. And 
there's never a need to follow a bad example, because it is popular." 

"You've never rubbed up against the world, mother, and don't know 
what's necessary to success. But I'll promise you to keep on the right 
track, and never be guilty of one dishonorable act. Good-bye, dear 
mother." 

"Good-bye ! God bless you, dear Ben !" 

Ben Howard's eyes were dim with unshed tears, but in his heart of 
hearts there was a wild throb of joy at the thought that he was to enter 
into unlimited freedom. The restraining hand of a "puritanical" old 
mother had grown irksome, and he longed for the privilege of exercising 
his own ideas of living. 

He would doubtless miss his mothe", sister and younger brother, at 
first, but this offer from a well-known lawyer in the Northwest was the 
chance of a lifetime, and not to be declined because of the distance from 
his' boyhood's home. With only his education and his law diploma as 
capital, a full partnership with his father's former partner seemed a 
Providential provision. 

The town of Hoffman, in which Ben located was a new country 
seat, situated near a mining district, and was fast filling up with a varied 
population. Five thriving saloons were among the town's leading enter- 
prises. It was in reference to these, that Mrs. Howard had so earnestly 
cautioned her son. 

For several months, Ben was subjected to no temptation to enter a 
saloon, but at his partner's suggestion the firm began to deal in real 
estate. In a short time it seemed the most natural thing in the world 
for a deal in lots to be closed by an all-round treat. Gradually the habit 
developed until Ben began to regard with contempt his former ideas as 
to prohibition. 

The young lawyer met with phenomenal success in all he undertook, 
and was as popular as a new dollar. No one was surprised when he fell 
in love with the prettiest and most accomplished girl in the town, and 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 205 

married her in the face of a dozen rivals. Ben returned to his old home 
in Tennessee on a bridal trip, and his charming wife won all hearts. 

"It will do your heart good to know how Ben stands iru Hoffman," 
the happy bride confided to the old mother. "He is the most popular 
man in the country, and many consider him the most brilliant. Every- 
body has unbounded confidence in his honor and integrity, although, 
being a lawyer, and a real estate man, he has many temptations." 

"It is certainly gratifying to hear that, dear," replied the mother. 
"But does Ben make a stand, against the saloon?" 

"Why, no, he doesn't object particularly to the saloons, but no one 
ever heard of him being drunk. Ben is too broad-minded to join the 
prohibitionists." 

"The saloons are essential to the growth of the town, mother," as- 
serted Ben, who had entered and heard the last remark. "It's human 
nature for a man to want what he is forbidden to have, and as men must 
have liquor the saloon is preferable to the blind tiger, — such as you 
have here." 

"There's no need of either, son." 

"Mother's out of date in her notions," Ben continued after his 
mother had left the room. "She would be shocked at the idea of 'setting 
up' a crowd. But a man must keep on a broad road, if he would get on 
in the world." 

A year later, Ben Howard became a candidate for district attorney. 
There were several competitors for the office and the race was uncertain. 
The saloon played an important part in the campaign, as the candidate 
who tendered the most drinks secured the majority of voters. Ben was 
elected, but spent the savings of two years' to win the so-called victory. 

"You must keep your hold on the masses, Howard," Ben's partner 
had advised after the election, for we will need you as our next state 
senator." 

And so Ben found excuse for continuing to "treat" and be "treated," 
long after the political contest had been decided. 

The following spring a new citizen took up his abode in the Howard 
home. It was Ben, Jr., as handsome a specimen of babyhood as one 
could wish. The proud father wrote his mother glowing descriptions 
of his boy's beauty, and winning ways, long before anyone else noticed 
his good looks. 

His first born ! How Ben gloated over his treasure ! The instincts 



206 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

of fatherhood stirred in his heart, and filled it with longings and aspira- 
tions for living upon a higher plane. This boy should be his other, more 
perfect self. 

In the autumn, Mrs. Howard, the most adoring of grandmothers, 
came on a visit to her son. It was her experienced eye that first noticed 
little Ben's failure to be interested in moving objects and colors. At her 
suggestion a physician was called to examine the beautiful, limpid blue 
eyes, and he discovered that the child was totally blind ! There was sor- 
row and bitter disappointment in the home, but the doctor held out the 
hope that when the child was eight or ten years old, he might undergo 
an operation which would give him sight. 

With the coming and going of the years other children came into 
the home, but little Ben remained a constant care and source of anxiety. 
There seemed to be a mental deficiency also, which time and medical 
treatment failed to remedy. 

At last the time came when the physician advised; the parents to 
take the boy to a specialist on brain diseases. Half way across the conti- 
nent they journeyed with their afflicted child. 

The great man made the examination in silence. At its conclusion 
he shook his head. 

"Any hope from an operation, Doctor?" asked the anxious father. 

"None whatever for either sight or mind." 

"What could have been the cause?" 

"Do you want my candid opinion ?" 

"Yes." 

"What was your mental and physical condition the year previous to 
this child's birth?" 

Howard was silent. 

"Wasn't your mind clouded by drugs or intoxicants, and wasn't the 
child's mother worried and troubled, because of your habit?" 

"And the child must bear the sin of the father!" groaned the man 
who had had his own way. — Jennie N. Standifer in Union Signal. 

THE SALOON KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 

Poor Lucy Daw ! It seemed as though she had no friends ; nobody 
seemed to care what became of her. She felt even more friendless since 
her mother died just one year ago. She realized after one year of hard 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 207 

suffering, that in losing her mother she had lost her best and truest 
friend, and as it seemed to her now, her only friend ; that is, with the 
exception of her father, Jack Daw, a saloon keeper, a whole-souled, good 
sort of fellow, who gave her most everything her heart could desire. He 
did a fine business and Lucy could not understand why the girls snubbed 
her as they did, as she led in all her classes and conducted herself always 
as a lady. But one day during recess she overheard a group of girls 
talking. 

"Girls, I think it is a downright shame that out of all of the good 
speakers in our literary society Lucy Daw was chosen to represent us 
in the inter-society contest. 

"Why, yes !" agreed Lucile Preston. "She's a saloonkeeper's 
daughter/' 

"Of course she is. Everybody knows she's old Jack Daw's daughter. 
His very likeness is stamped right in her face," and Mabel Lewis gave 
utterance to a sigh of disgust. 

"I, for one," continued Lucile, "do not mean to be present when she 
speaks. A saloonkeeper's daughter to — " Lucy could hear no more 
as the big bell sounded and recess was over. 

The girls all fell into line and were soon in the chapel pursuing their 
studies as usual. The conversation that Lucy had heard hurt her gentle 
nature very much. She now knew why all the girls avoided her as they 
did. She had thought more than once that she would go to the girls and 
ask them to excuse her; but then she reflected what a great honor it was, 
as she was to be the contestant of Zetalethian against the other four socie- 
ties, and she was anxious not only to speak, but even more anxious to 
win for her "daddy's" sake. Her father had already said: "Lucy, my 
dear, this speaks well for you, and daddy is proud of his daughter." 

Lucy worked hard in trying to decide on a subject. She had already 
chosen several, but there were some objections to each of them. 

The girls, it seemed, snubbed her all the more this time, more 
through jealousy, perhaps, than anything else, but it hurt Lucy very 
much. 

"And to think, the cause of all my misery is that daddy is a saloon- 
keeper!" 

A saloonkeeper ! She had often wondered why such a good man had 
chosen this occupation. Her father loved her devotedly and granted her 



208 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

every wish. They had a suite of rooms over his saloon and she kept 
house for him. 

Jack Daw was what might be appropriately called a diamond in the 
rough. While he loved Lucy and gratified all her wishes, yet to the out- 
side world he was a rough, hearty, go-lucky sort of fellow, who didn't 
seem to care for, or to take any interest in, serious subjects or the church. 

"Just so I make a good living and keep things going, what else is 
needed, my dear child?" he would say. 

"I know, daddy; but there is the other world," she would answer, 
"the hereafter. We should think of that — and I tell you it is certainly 
worth thinking about, too." 

One night, about two weeks after this conversation, Lucy was busy 
on her composition while her father was reading the daily paper. After 
a while he spoke : "Lucy, have you selected your subject for commence- 
ment?" 

"Yes, daddy, and a very difficult one, too ; one that I cannot manage 
alone, I am afraid, and so I want to ask your help. I am sure you will 
be willing to aid me," and she arose and, seating herself on the arm of 
her father's chair, placed her arm around his neck, and gazed into his 
brown eyes. 

"I will certainly do all in my power to help you win, my dear," he 
said. "But what is your subject?" 

"The subject is an interesting one," replied Lucy. "I have chosen 
'The Evils and Sins in a Saloon.' " 

Her father looked bewildered. What had tempted his daughter to 
discuss such a subject? 

"But, my child, what do you — " 
Lucy interrupted : "Yes, there is evil, much evil, in even you, my dear, 
good, and kind daddy. If there were not, you would not stay in this 
business which wrecks other lives. And, O, you didn't realize when Jim 
Landers spent his last cent for whisky in your saloon Saturday night that 
he was giving up the small sum of money that should have been used to 
supply food and clothes for his family, and that he went straight home 
and cursed and abused his poor wife and children, besides letting them 
almost starve. I am sure you couldn't look at it in this light, or you, my 
dear, good daddy, would close down your saloon and turn to God. The 
Bible says*: 'No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the 
one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the 




'I know, daddy, but there is the other world. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 209 

other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.' Just so in the saloon busi- 
ness. You cannot continue in this business of ruining other lives and 
serve God. No, daddy, you must give up one or the other. And for my 
sake, who loves you better than all the world, won't you give up the 
saloon? O, I know it's no easy thing to do — especially when one has 
the business you have. Do not sell out to others. Think of their souls ! 
Just simply close the door and trust to God for the rest. He is just and 
will not let us suffer. I can get employment, and I am sure a man of 
your ability would have no trouble in finding a position of some kind. 
You did not know that I am being snubbed by everyone, not for any 
fault of my own, but all because my father is a saloonkeeper. I heard 
the girls talking at recess not long since, and one of them said she 
thought it a downright shame that the judges have chosen me, a saloon- 
keeper's daughter, to represent our society on commencement day. And, 
daddy, those cruel words hurt me very much when I first heard them, 
and I could hardly resist going over to them and resenting their speech, 
but what I heard set me to thinking. I never before fully realized 
what a misfortune it was to be a saloonkeeper's daughter; but now, like 
them, I feel that our society should not be represented by one occupying 
such a position. So, my dear, good daddy will have to help me carry out 
my good resolution. Please don't say you can't. It is hard for me to 
be treated so, and to be made unhappy, just because I am the child of a 
man who sells drink. I cannot tell you how much I suffer, and I know 
you do not want me to be so troubled." 

All the while her father listened with averted eyes. As she finished 
a tear shone on his cheek, and he put his arm around the pleading girl. 
To see his Lucy, who was the one object of his life, in trouble was too 
much for him. 

"My dear Lucy," he said, "you have indeed put your old daddy to 
thinking. I will consider your proposition, especially as it will help you 
to win this honor, and " 

"Daddy, it is not this honor that is most in my heart. It is your and 
my life's happiness, not only in this world, but the world that is to come. 
If you want to meet mother, as you promised her on her deathbed, you 
will have to give up this business. 

As she ceased speaking they heard a low groan, as if from someone 
in misery. They looked out of the window only to see the form of a 
drunken man who had fallen in the gutter right in front of his saloon. 



210 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

The man proved to be no one else than Jim Landers. It was plain to see 
that the poor soul was in real agony, and his face told of much pain. 

"Daddy, we must not let him stay there. We must get him up to 
bed. The poor fellow is certainly full of that miserable rum." 

They, with much effort, succeeded in getting him up and laying him 
across the bed, where he remained all night in a drunken stupor. 

That night was a very restless one indeed for Jack Daw. What 
Lucy had said to him had not been lost. He could see Juliet Landers, a 
frail, delicate little woman, worn by ill-treatment and hard work, and a 
group of hungry children around her crying out for food, and her cup- 
board totally bare. And it came to him that he was responsible for this 
horrible condition of affairs. Then the picture of his wife on her dying 
bed seemed to present itself only to make him more miserable, for with 
bitter remorse he remembered his promise to her. It was indeed a night 
of hard struggle and battle, but one that at the break of dawn resulted in 
one of the grandest of all victories. The Jack Daw that retired that night 
was by no means the same Jack Daw that arose the next morning, and, 
with that victory came that new life that was to mean so much to Lucy 
and him in years to come. 

Imagine Lucy's delight and surprise when at the breakfast table he 
announced his intention of closing his saloon that very day. Lucy was 
overcome by his words and going to him, laid her head on his shoulder 
and shed tears of happiness. 

"Daddy, it's so like you. I know what a sacrifice it is for you. I 
know better than anyone what a sacrifice it will be to us both; but 
then, daddy, I don't mind." And her tears flowed all the more. 

"There, do not cry," said the father, tenderly. I am doing all this 
for my Lucy and I wish to God that I could do more," and he kissed 
Lucy affectionately. 

"Daddy, you can do more, one thing more at least. You can become 
a Christian. You will not be carrying out your promise to mother until 
you do. Can you not join the church Sunday? Promise me this one 
thing more if you wish to make me the proudest and happiest girl in all 
the world." 

"Daddy is in your hands now, my dear," he said, simply. "Your 
wishes shall be his wishes." 

"Was there ever a girl blessed with such a dear, good, and noble 
daddy as you are? And O, daddy, you can never fully realize how very 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 211 

happy you have made me. Now that I have won this victory, I know 
I shall have less trouble in winning the other." 

The sixteenth of June, commencement day at Howard Seminary, 
proved a most beautiful one. The chapel was crowded to its utmost, for 
it had been circulated that Lucy Daw, Mr. Jack Daw's daughter, was to 
represent Zetalethian against the four other societies. 

Now, Zeta had several victories to its credit in this contest, and some 
had come to think it could not be defeated. Jack Daw sat near the front 
where he could get full view of his daughter. Lucy, who sat with her 
rival contestants, never looked more beautiful than she did then in her 
simple organdie dress, and her face was flushed with the spirit of enthu- 
siasm. She must win not only for Zeta, but for her "daddy's" sake, who 
made such a sacrifice for her. This thought increased her enthusiasm, 
and she was anxious for the program to begin. At last Professor Milsom 
arose and announced the first speaker, Miss Mary Williams, who repre- 
sented Thalonian, and whose subject was "The College Bred Girl." Miss 
Williams spoke well, and seemed quite satisfied with her effort. Three 
others followed, and — 

Lucy realized at the last moment that she had quite a task before 
her, but the sight of her "daddy" on the front seat seemed to encourage 
her anew. 

Finally she arose and announced her subject — "The Sins and Evils 
in a Saloon." From the very start she plainly captured the audience, and 
when she had finished, the strongest approbation was manifested. Some 
there were who w r ept, unable to control their feelings under the stress of 
her words. Even Lucile Preston's eyes w T ere wet, for after the program 
Lucy had thus addressed the girls of her society: 

"And girls, you need not have been ashamed. I was even more de- 
termined than any of you that our society should be represented by one 
who was acceptable to you. Whether Zeta wins or loses it matters not 
to me now, since I have already won a most glorious victory as it is, one 
that I had rather have gained than a thousand such as this one," and with 
tears in her eyes she pointed to where "daddy" sat, also in tears. "He is 
my father," she said, "whom I love more than all the world, and I am 
his daughter; but at the same time I am no longer the daughter of a 
saloonkeeper. That misfortune has been lifted from my shoulders, and 
I shall never be burdened with the same again." She sat down, weak 



212 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

from the nervous strain, for she had thrown her whole soul into a speech 
which meant so much for her. 

In announcing the winner Professor Milsom said : "I think you will 
all agree with me, even to Miss Williams, who spoke most excellently, 
that the honor of today is justly won by Miss Lucy Daw. She has, in- 
deed, won two victories in one. She has not only benefited the society 
but the whole town in general. Miss Daw, I take great pleasure in an- 
nouncing you the winner, and Zetalethian should feel proud of such a 
contestant. 

"She is at least that, and even more in my estimation," said Mr. Daw, 
later, as he patted Lucy on the cheek. 

"O, Lucy, that was a fine speech, and we are all so proud of you," 
said Lucile Preston. 

"Yes, indeed, so proud that our society should have had such a fine 
representative," said Mabel Lewis, as she embraced Lucy affectionately, 
"and we are going to have a tea tonight complimentary to our rival con- 
testants. You must be sure and be there." 

"I should be charmed to accept your invitation, girls, but daddy — " 

"We want you to bring 'daddy' with you, Lucy, as we all want to 
get acquainted with each other." 

"Lucy, my darling, daddy was so proud of his daughter today. Your 
speech was splendid. How could you have done so well, my dear?" 

"It was not altogether my speech," said Lucy, happily. "No, daddy ; 
if it had not been for you, Zeta would now be sailing under different 
colors." 

"I am sure I have done very little, my dear." 

"You have done all," replied Lucy, "for by making it possible to win 
one victory you opened up the way in helping me to win the one of 
today." 

He did not answer, but a fond smile was more expressive than words, 
and together they entered the home which henceforth was to be one of 
happiness and peace. — Selected and adapted. 

"PUFF," THE ENGINEER. 

Evidently there was something seriously wrong at the home of 
"Puff," the engineer. The curtains had been drawn for days ; the doctor 
came and went; the few friends stopped at the door and made hasty 
inquiries. What did it all mean? 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 213 

Let us introduce you to the back room of the home. Three persons 
are there, an intimate friend of the family, the careworn and anxious 
little wife, and "Puff," as all the men on the road called him — he was 
so large and had a way of breathing that reminded one of the engine 
upon which he had spent a greater part of his life. Now he was the 
most dejected and pitiable of men. His face was drawn, his voice choked 
and husky, while the tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks, as he mut- 
tered : "It's no use — it's no use — now! See that little wife? See 
that empty cupboard? See me? There is not a mouthful of bread or 
butter or anything else in this house to eat. We are starving, yes, we 
are starving, and that's all there is of it! Oh dear! Oh dear! What 
shall we do — what shall we do?" 

Puff's friend tried to tell him of a position offered him; his wife 
spoke bravely and encouragingly; all to no purpose. He had been 
thinking of his troubles so much of late that he had become temporarily 
deranged, and two days previous had attempted suicide by shutting him- 
self in his room and turning on the gas. He was found in time and 
nursed back to life. 

What was the cause of all this? Let us go backward and then follow 
the pathway of his life up to this time ; then we shall find that his 
experience is not altogether exceptional. 

Puff was sympathetic and generous, but a little weak. Twenty years 
earlier he had a good home, good neighbors, and friends among "the 
boys," as he called them. There was no better, no more trusted engineer 
than he. He ran a passenger train, and had the name of always "getting 
there" on time. When a fast run was to be made, with not much time 
to make it in, Puff was called upon by the officials with the word, "send 
her through," and he did it, every time. Puff was proud of his record 
and proud of his engine, proud of the confidence imposed in him. He was 
no drunkard, and would have been greatly insulted, had any one sug- 
gested such a thing. For a long time his wife and most intimate friends 
never suspected that he was drinking to excess. In fact, he did not drink 
"to excess" as the phrase is generally interpreted, but he did take a 
social glass frequently. However, the time came when, had he been 
questioned closely, he would have admitted that sometimes his legs did 
feel a little wobbly; that it was not easy to count the money of the 
society of which he was treasurer ; that he did lie to his wife when giving 
a reason for not coming home earlier ; that he did lie in giving an account 



214 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

of the money he expended. Sometimes, when he took the lever in his 
hands, and looked down the shining rails, the tracks did seem mixed 
and running together. But Puff persuaded himself that he was no 
drunkard and could quit any time, and would quit before the habit 
became more firmly fixed. How self-deceived he was ! We know that 
the drinking habit is as deceitful as sin, and as quiet in its creeping 
power as a serpent. 

Puff drank more and more. His companions found it out; his 
wife, to her great sorrow and humiliation, found it out; and Puff's 
employers found it out, though he gave them no cause for complaint. 
He was always ready for his train, and always "got there" in time. 
It is true, that in recent years his frightful running had caused the death 
of nine people ; but he was not to blame ; they simply got in the w 
of his "thunderbolt." 

The home felt the growing weakness most. One day, after Puff 
had received his check for one hundred and thirty-five dollars, he came 
home more boozy than ever, and said, "Say, wifey, I — I will pay the 
bills to-day; you needn't go out." He paid every bill, but he did not 
come home that night, nor the next morning until long after daylight, 
and when he did come in, all the one hundred and thirty-five dollars 
was gone except a lonely ten dollar bill. This thing grew more and 
more frequent. It was spoken of more and more openly. The officials 
of the road heard more of it than they wished to hear, and they kept 
a close watch on Puff. 

One afternoon, he reported for duty, not having fully recovered from 
the debauch of the night before, and was told simply: "Puff, we have 
concluded that your services are no longer wanted by this company. 
You have been warned and you did not heed the warning. We cannot 
entrust our trains and the lives of our patrons to a drunkard !" Puff 
felt like one who had been struck by lightning. He was sober now, 
but he made no appeal. He stood' dazed for a moment, then turned 
and left the office. Going home, he was forced to tell his little wife, 
who heard the words as if they had been her death sentence; but he 
tried to cheer her, saying, "Oh, never mind, wifey, I guess it won't be 
long — perhaps not more than sixty days — and I'll be careful next 
time." But his wife saw only final discharge and humiliation and dis- 
grace. She wept night and day, for her poor little heart had long been 
under the shadows from Puff's conduct, and she had feared the worst. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 215 

For several days she went about the house sighing and sobbing. She 
kept the shades down and refused to respond to the bell. Then there 
came a sudden change in her demeanor, and she was heard laughing in 
the night, laughing a silly, hollow laugh. Her husband was aroused, 
and said, "Why, wifey, what's the matter?" But she only laughed on 
and on. The doctor was called next day, and she laughed when she met 
him. She had lost her mind, was pronounced insane, and was soon 
taken to the asylum. 

Poor Puff, it seemed his cup of sorrow was too full, and the worst 
of it was, he knew that it was his fault, all the result of his drinking. 
For six months Puff walked the streets or sat and brooded and won- 
dered what the next would be in his life's experiences. He had not 
touched a drop of liquor since his wife had been taken away. He was 
sure he never would touch another drop. How glad he was when his 
dear wife was brought home ! How glad he was when he was told that 
the company had decided to give him another trial ! How glad and 
happy Puff was, when once more he stepped on the engine, opened the 
throttle, and felt the thrill of the iron monster's bounding speed! Ah! 
Was he too proud? Was he too confident? Did he depend upon his 
own strength too much? Let others judge of these things as they will; 
we have but to relate the facts. Puff was soon slyly drinking again. 
Soon again, all the money went each and every pay-day. Nothing was 
left to put in the bank, and the little wife was in an agony of gloomy 
apprehension all the time. In less than two years Puff received his 
final discharge, and this in no uncertain terms. It was after this dis- 
charge came that we found him as described in the opening of this 
story, despondent, humiliated, on the verge of utter collapse. His friends 
interceded for him, and he was finally given a position as a day laborer, 
where he was able to earn forty dollars a month. He is working for 
that now. It is a bitter pill for him, but it is all there is for him, and 
he trudges back and forth to his daily toil, not so young and not so 
proud in spirit as he was thirty years ago, when he was first given an 
engine. 

In conversation with the brave and faithful wife, recently, this is 
what was heard: "Yes, I know it is awful for Puff to come down to 
forty dollars a month, but really. I am happier than when he drew his 
one hundred and thirty-five, for we have all that we really need. I do 
not worry now as I did, and I feel that he is mine now more than ever 



216 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

before. He is home every night; when he can, he goes to church with 
me, and I do not care for the money he earned so long as it did no 
one any good but the miserable saloonkeepers. I have often thought 
that, had Puff just taken his money and given them fifty or sixty dollars 
every month and not touched the poison they gave him in exchange, 
we would have been better off and so much happier." 

And Puff, himself, said: "The greatest mistake of my life was 
when, twenty years ago, I was invited to become a Christian, unite with 
the church and lead a better life. But I thought I knew what was best, 
and now see what it has cost me !" — C. W. Stephenson in Church Tidings. 

JIMMIE'S ACCOUNT. 

The dead twigs of the bare trees snapped and whirled hither and 
thither in the cold, sleety wind. Some of the twigs struck Jimmie in the 
face as he ran toward home, carrying his school books. He had found 
that the stinging cold did not pinch his feet so badly if he ran fast. Poor 
feet ! A toe peeped out here and there through the rents in his old shoes. 

Though Jimmie's feet were aching, his heart was full of joy, for he 
had in his pocket the last dime needed to pay for his shoes. Mr. Boulder 
had kept the shoes for him two months now, waiting until Jimmie could 
make up the full amount, one dollar and a half. He had paid all but 
twenty-five cents, and the dime in his pocket, added to the fifteen cents 
hidden at home, would settle his bill and give him the shoes. 

Jimmie was the son of a drunkard, Tom Hillbrecht. Although but 
twelve years old, this neglected boy was able to earn many a dime, which 
he sadly needed. His father often took his money away from him, and 
passed it over to Mr. Saybright, the saloonkeeper. Jimmie had learned 
that the only way to save money enough for his shoes was to hide some 
of his earnings. He did not leave his money in the house any length of 
time, for his home was a small, shabby place, and his father had always 
succeeded in finding his hidden money. 

When Jimmie reached the door of his home this cold, wintry day, he 
did not burst in with a shout as most boys would have done ; he was too 
cautious for that. He opened the door noiselessly and looked at his 
mother inquiringly. She seemed to know what he meant, for she shook 
her head and smiled at him. Then he eagerly cried : 

"I have enough money to pay for my shoes, mamma! Can't I go 
right over and get them before father comes home?" 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 217 

"Not tonight, Jimmie. The last stick of wood is in the stove, and 
yon must gather some more at once." 

Jimmie never disobeyed his mother. After he had gone up the rick- 
ety stairs to his corner overhead, and hidden away his precious dime, he 
got his cart and hurried off to the woodyard to gather up some refuse 
wood which the owner had kindly given him. 

He had not been gone long when Mr. Hillbrecht came home. For 
once he was sober. He had no money to buy drink that day, and the bar- 
tender would not trust him. He had been a kind husband and father 
before the drink habit mastered him, and his wife still clung to him, never 
giving up hope. 

He glanced at the table spread for the evening meal and saw how 
meager was the supply of food. Then a thought came to him, and he 
stumbled up the stairs to the loft overhead, where hung his long neg- 
lected rifle. He used to be a good shot; perhaps even now he could win 
the turkey in the shooting match next day. He took down the rifle, 
dusted it, and looked around for something with which to clean it. A 
wad of old rags was stuffed behind a rafter. He pulled it out, and down 
rolled something metallic on the floor. He stooped and picked up a dime. 
His eyes glittered. Now he could get his usual glass, and with that 
thought he started toward- the doorway. But stop ! There might be 
more money; so he shook out the rags, and there fell from them a paper 
wad. He undid it and found another dime and nickel. As he thrust 
them into his pocket, he noticed writing and figures on the paper. This 
is what he saw : 

Oct. 2. — Paid Mr. Boulder a dime. Earned it carrying water for Mrs. 
Green. O how my back acked. 

Oct. 15. — Paid Mr. Boulder 15 cts. Earned a quarter but had to give 
father ten cents for likker. 

Oct. 23. — Paid 10 cents more on shoes. 

Nov. 2. — Got up at three and raked leaves for Squire Green. Got 
25 cents. He's going to pay Mr. Boulder so father won't get it for likker. 

Nov. 9 — Sold the bread bord I made at sloyd. Mother said she 
could get along without it as well as she had done. Got fifty cents 
and paid to Mister Boulder. 

Nov. 20. — Tom Saybright twitted me to-day of being a drunkard's 
son. My ! wasn't I mad ! "Who made him a drunkard ?" I sang out. 
Tom laffed and said something more hateful still about the frills on my 



218 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

shoes. O dear — shall I ever get new ones! Paid in 15 cents to-day. 
Only 25 more to pay. 

Nov. 23. — Earned 15 cents. I wonder if I had some real heavy 
stockings if I couldent get along with these shoes. Mother needs so 
many things before snow comes. Couldent see Mister Boulder to-night. 
Father dident ask me for enny money. Seems to have enough and is 
drinking awful. Mother cries a lot. 

A flush of shame crept over Mr. Hillbrecht's face as he read by the 
fading light. He began to review his past years, and to see to what 
depths he had fallen. He did not hear Jimmie coming up the stairs, 
and was only aroused by his little son's cry of dismay as he saw that 
his father had found his money. 

''Don't take it from me, father!" he begged piteously. 

The poor drunkard looked at the handsome boy with his thread- 
bare garments and tattered shoes, and then thought of the pampered son 
of the saloon-keeper. What made the difference? He knew, and he 
vowed that Jimmie should have a fair chance with the other boys. 

Taking Jimmie's hand, he said, "Come with me." Jimmie did not 
dare disobey, but as he left the house and went toward the business 
part of the town, his little heart throbbed with fear and' pain, for he 
felt that his father was going to the saloon to spend the hard-earned 
money. His father had never before taken him to the saloon, and as 
they stood in the doorway, Jimmie held back, but his father drew him 
in and up to the counter. 

"I've come to tell you that this is the last time I'll ever cross this 
threshold," said Mr. Hillbrecht to the astonished saloon-keeper. "I'm 
going to give my boy a fair chance with yours. It's my money and the 
money of such fools as these," he added, as he looked around at the 
loafers who had been his companions, "that keeps your family in such 
fine style, and gives them a chance to sneer at our ragged children. 
You'll never get another cent from me." 

Then he stalked out of the saloon, still holding Jimmie's hand, and 
went on to Mr. Boulder's, to whom he gave the 25 cents. 

"My boy wants to settle his bill," he said, "and get his shoes. Put 
them on, Jimmie, and carry the others home for firewood." 

It was a happy family in the Hillbrecht home that night, and it was 

not many days until a fine turkey was bought for the Hillbrecht table. 

Selected by S. S. Messenger. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 219 

FOR THE SAKE OF JIMMY. 

"Hello there, Central. Give me Main 542. Ah, there, is that you, 
Tad? This is Rogers, Scott Rogers. Just to tell you I'll go to-night. 
Yes, I'll bring my violin. Meet you at five minutes to eight? All right, 
I'll be on hand. What's that? Tad Williams, when did you ever know 
me to back out when I said I'd do a thing?" 

The receiver was hung in its place with undue violence, and the 
door of the telephone room closed with such force as to cause the 
manager to look up with a frown. 

"And why shouldn't I go if I please?" argued Scott Rogers with 
his better self all that morning, as he mechanically posted his ledger or 
footed up columns of figures. "I'm my own master if anybody ever was. 
It isn't as if there was anybody to care one way or the other. Now if 
I had a mother, like Tad Williams, who was begging and praying him 
to give up those club affairs, it would be different. Or even if it was 
a case like Will Jennings with a whole lot of youngsters growing up in 
his family, and he the oldest. Of course, they'll go just where Will 
does. But it's different with me; not a relative in all the world who 
cares a continental whether I get in at seven at night or three in the 
morning, or in fact whether I get in at all. Nobody has a heartache 
if they see me smoking a cigaret or smell whisky on my breath. It 
used to give me rather a lonesome feeling, but after all, it makes easy 
living; responsible to nobody and for nobody." 

"Rogers," said the manager in the middle of the afternoon, "can 
you take the time from your books to attend to a little matter? It is 
a matter of repairs at 586 Dismond Street, one of Greeley's houses, a 
leakage in the roof. I want somebody from the office to look into it 
before we send the roofing men down, and there is nobody but you 
available just now. The Grove Street car will take you right there." 

"All right, sir." Scott was slipping into his overcoat as he spoke. 
"Dismond Street — seems as though I knew somebody down that way. 
The number 586 has a familiar sound, too," he mused. As he left the 
car and approached the modest two-story frame building, the place con- 
nected itself with something in his memory. "If it isn't Belding's house," 
he said to himself. "I didn't think I'd forget that number so soon," 
recalling the occasion of a visit to the place in the lonesome morning 
hours. Three times he pressed the electric button before his ring was 



220 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

answered by a sweet-faced little woman. She offered profuse apologies 
for keeping him waiting,- but the best of excuses was written plainly on 
her tell-tale face, flushed with some deep emotion, and in the worried 
eyes quite evidently hastily bathed to remove signs of violent weeping. 

"From Morton's Real Estate Agency?" she repeated after him in a 
bewildered manner. "Oh, yes, pardon me, I remember — the leak in 
the roof — I telephoned about it, didn't I? Yes, it leaked in badly that 
rainy night, Thursday, I guess it was. I had almost forgotten it, so 
many things have happened since, so many worse things than leaks in 
roofs." The tender mouth of the little woman trembled. 

Young Rogers looked sympathetic. "I fear you're in trouble, Mrs. 
Belding," he said, gently. "If there is anything I can do — I'll be so 
glad to be of assistance to you. I think I know your son." 

The little woman gave one quick, furtive, hungry look into the face 
of the handsome young fellow. "You know my Jimmy?" she queried, 
her searching, mother's eyes now looking straight into his, with a 
steady, penetrating gaze as if she would peer down into his very heart. 

"Yes," replied Rogers promptly, although a tell-tale flush came to 
his cheeks, as he recalled the occasions that had led to his acquaintance 
with her "Jimmy." 

"Your name is " Rogers finished the sentence. "Scott Rogers. 

You may have heard James speak of me." Again the flush came to the 
young man's face. 

"Indeed, I have." The little woman responded cordially. "Many, 
many times." She reached out her hand impulsively toward her visitor. 
"I have wanted so many times to meet you, to know you, to talk with 

you " she hesitated, then concluded with a tremor in her voice — 

"about Jimmy. Could you spare a few minutes ? Could we have a little 
talk together? The leak in the roof can wait — it doesn't matter much 
compared with other things. Perhaps I ought not to take your time, you 
are a busy man, no doubt, but if I could?" 

"Certainly, madam," was the prompt response, "but I think you are 
misinformed. You would think less of me if you knew the kind of a 
friend I have been to Jimmy — not as helpful as I might have been, 
I am afraid." 

"Oh, but you might be. I know if you could only understand how 
it is, you would be. I don't believe there is anybody in the world, not 
even myself, his mother, who has such power to make a man of my 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 221 

Jimmy as you. Oh, I have just been praying that in some way I might 
meet you and talk with you, and I believe the Lord himself must have 
sent you here to-day." 

Scott Rogers looked uncomfortable. The idea of his having been 
sent as a special angel of light to comfort this worried little mother, was 
not only startling, but discomfiting. 

"I don't suppose you know," she continued, "boys never do, how 
much of a hero you are in the eyes of my boy. The first few weeks 
after he became acquainted with you, he talked continually of what 
Scott Rogers said and did, and it was a foregone conclusion, I knew, that 
Jimmy, with his capacity for hero-worship, would follow just where you 
led. Please don't think I am preaching or even chiding, but Oh, how I 
hoped in those days that you were the real hero that Jimmy thought you 
were, who would lead him to noble things and help him to withstand 
his temptations." 

The young man before her dropped his face into his hands, to con- 
ceal the emotion he knew was written there. 

"You see, Jimmy is different," the voice faltered and the hands 
nervously fondled one another. "He isn't strong in some things, because 
of an inherited weakness." She spoke the last two words, with almost a 
gasp, as if they hurt her. "He can't meet temptations of wine and 
such things as you and the other boys can, but he doesn't realize it. I 
know, Mr. Rogers, I am doing a most unconventional and perhaps an 
inexcusable thing, but it is a matter of infinite importance to me and to 
Jimmy, and I know no other human being who can do so much for my 
Jimmy as you. They brought him home last night, perhaps you knew 
about it ; for all I know, you were one of his escorts." 

The young man before her shook his head. 

"No. Well, I am glad you were not at the affair. He slept half 
the morning, and then went to work with such an aching head that he 
will be practically useless all day. To-night is the night he always goes 
to the club — the Jovial Fellows, I believe they call themselves, and 
he told me it was to be an extra occasion, and that he was to sing — 
that's why they want him, because of his beautiful voice. And he will 
go to-night, I can't prevent it. I, only a weak woman, cannot always 
persuade him — Oh, what will be the end?" Her voice ended in a wail, 
and she threw herself upon the couch, hiding her face in a pillow. 

Shame, self-contempt, concern, anxiety, consternation chased each' 



222 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

other across the face of Scott Rogers. Then he pulled himself to his feet 
and braced his broad shoulders as if for an encounter with an enemy. 

"Please, Mrs Belding," he pleaded, "please don't. The end isn't 
going to be what you fear." He threw out every word with an almost 
explosive energy, as if he feared to give himself time to change his 
mind. "I had made myself think — I argued it out this very morning, 
that I hadn't any vital connection with anything or anybody, and that it 
didn't matter one little bit whether I walked straight or crooked. What 
a fool I was, not to know and understand that nobody ever stands alone 
in this world. You've burned the truth into me as you talked about 
Jimmy, and I see how I've almost lost my chance to be a good friend to 
him. Maybe I can afford to spoil my own life, by going at any old pace 
I please, but I just tell you, Mrs. Belding, I haven't got quite so low 
down that I can in cold blood make up my mind to help another fellow 
to go to the dogs, and break a mother's heart in the bargain." 

Mrs. Belding was sitting up now, looking into his face with pathetic 
eagerness and confidence. "And you will help then, you will be a 
friend to my Jimmy, a true friend?" 

Scott Rogers grasped the nervous, feverish little hand of the mother 
in his own strong, firm fingers. "I'll do it, Mrs. Belding. You can 
depend on me. We'll pull him through as sure as my name is Rogers. 
I never knew what it was to have a mother to love me, but you've 
shown me what a beautiful thing a mother's love is, and I'm going to 
help your Jimmy to be true to it. Now for the leak in the roof, Mrs. 
Belding, if you please, for I must get back to the office, and attend to 
some other things before evening." 

Things happened in the remaining hours of that afternoon with a 
rapidity that startled at least two people. Jimmy Belding, sitting at his 
desk in the big counting room of Blair & Buck, trying, with dull, aching- 
head, to get through the day's work, was surprised by a caller. The 
caller stood not upon ceremony, but looking down from his six feet of 
dogged determination, said calmly: 

"Hello, Jimmy. I just dropped in to say that that affair this evening 
out at Hubbell's is called off, for you and for me. You're not to sing 
and I'm not to play, and we'll neither of us be there." 

Jimmy tried to gather together his befuddled wits. 

"Called off? Why, I promised to meet the boys at. eight!" he 
expostulated. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 223 

"So did I," said Scott Rogers. "And I'm going to break that promise 
all to smithereens, and so are you. I tell you, neither of us is going 
to those things at Hubbell's to-night." 

Jimmy looked worried; his somewhat weak lips moved nervously. 
"Oh, say, Scott, I can't. I promised to go. I can't go back on a promise. 
What'll the fellows say?" 

"You can and will," said Rogers grimly and firmly. "All you've got 
to do, if you feel unequal to the emergency, is to keep away from the 
telephone, and I'll do the rest. I'll make Tad Williams and the rest 
understand. Don't you fear. Then I am to meet you here at 5 :30; don't 
you leave without me, mind, and we are to take dinner together; then 
I'll tell you the rest. You said you would, didn't you?" 

"You know you can make me do anything you want to," said 
Jimmy, dropping his eyes under the other determined gaze. 

"I hope it is true," thought Scott, as he walked out of the office 
with the brisk air of a man who has important business on hand. 

Ten minutes later, he was asking Central to connect him with Main 
542. "Hello, that you, Tad? Yes, it's Rogers. Just to tell you, that 
Jimmy Belding and I cannot be at that club affair to-night. No, I say 
we can't — C-A-N-T — the word that is't in the dictionary. Yes, I hear 
you, I know perfectly well what you think of me. Don't take the 
trouble to repeat it. Yes, I hear. Say it again, if it relieves your mind. 
The reason, you ask? Well, to be frank and perfectly serious, tre- 
mendously serious, Tad Williams, the reason of it all is just this : A 
different person is talking with you over this 'phone this afternoon from 
the one who talked with you this morning. I've grown about fifty years 
since then, and it is absolutely impossible for me to go, and for Jimmy 
Belding to go. Yes, I broke a promise, I admit it, and I'd break a 
hundred more of the same kind and be proud of myself for doing it; 
though I'd be ashamed to think I ever made them. Yes, I hear — I 
understand — Yes, I have a very clear and distinct idea of just what 
the fellows will think and say of me. If you remember, I have said all 
those things — the things they'll say, and in just as disagreeable fashion 
as they can say them, of other fellows. No, I'm not going to be a 
goody-goody boy ; I'm going to be a man for the first time in my life, 
and I'm going to accept a few of the responsibilities that go with being 
a man ; and what's more, I'm going to help the next fellow to be one, too. 
Is that sufficiently clear? Yes, sir, that's going to be my business here- 



224 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

after, and the Jovial Fellows not being in that line, the Jovial Fellows 
and I have parted company forever. That's all. Good-bye." — Julia F. 
Deane in Union Signal. 

TOW-HEAD. 

A young woman, awaiting the opening of the Juvenile Court, threw 
her fur coat over the back of a chair, behind which sat a row of little 
probationers. Small hands stroked the jacket's soft smoothness, while 
low-toned bets were exchanged as to the kind of animal it had once 
adorned. Finally, emboldened by the smiling face turned partially 
toward them, one youngster asks : 

"Say, what's it made outer?" 

"Seal." 

"Gee! Real or play?" 

A rosy flush mounted to her brow, as, feigning deafness, she lifted 
merry eyes to the round reflections dancing in wild gyrations of light 
over the ceiling of the great room. A majority of the lads came armed 
with circular little mirrors which they flashed in the sun, as well as in 
the eyes of the court officials, their natural prey. 

"There's the old Tramway cop, the fat Phoenix! Give it to 'im in 
the eye !" 

The good-natured officer blinked in more senses than one at the daz- 
zling glare, as with a knowing leer at the boys, he turned out of range. 

At Judge Findley's entrance, the glasses were pocketed as by a 
common impulse. His brief address to the boys, couched in a language 
intelligible to the most benighted, was followed by the taking of reports 
and a partial clearing of the room, as the first case on the crowded 
docket was called. At 2:30 Eddy Collins' name was called, bringing 
forward a white-headed, weazen-faced, bony child, with eyes too big for 
his odd little phiz. 

"Tow-head !" was heard from some of the waiting boys, as the 
little fellow stepped before the judge. His Honor smiled, a genial 
warmth lighting his tired face, as he passed a hand over his own thin- 
ning hair. 

"It's better to be tow-headed than bald-headed, any day! Isn't it, 
Eddy?" 

An old, automatic smile wrinkled the thin little face, but no humor 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 225 

lit the solemn eyes, and the judge sighed with renewed weariness as he 
demanded the charge against the child. Eddy stood, toeing in and out 
with an absent-minded monotony. 

"Drunkenness and frequenting saloons, your Honor," answered the 
probation officer. 

A heavy frown lowered between Judge Findley's clear, dark eyes, 
which, despite all, still held some message of faith and hope for every 
little chap who sought it there. 

"Can it be true, Eddy, after all my talk about this most serious 
offense?" 

The tow-head nodded, while the downcast, hungry eyes remained 
fixed, in vague concentration upon his shoes, through which bare toes 
poked. 

"Did your father send you to buy liquor?" 

Again the silently bowed head. 

"He committed a grave crime, but was that any reason why you 
should drink the whiskey, even if you had to buy it?" 

No answer. 

"Look at me, my boy !" 

Eyes of dumb pain gazed unwinkingly from the stolid, changeless 
face. 

"Aren't you one of the boys that promised to help hold down my 
job, by playing square, after I gave you another chance?" 

A mute assent was given. 

"Well, I've done my part, haven't I ? Answer me !" 

"Yes, Jedge !" 

"But how about you, Ed? Have you any further claim on my 
patience and faith?" 

"No, Jedge." 

"You know what this means, Eddy ?" 

"Yes, Jedge!"— -and a slight quiver of life stirred the little stoic's 
face. 

"Have you no excuse, my boy, for breaking your word and going 
back on the man who has been your friend?" 

Hope died hard with Judge Findley. 

"No, less'n — " the great eyes burned in hot scrutiny over the intent, 
listening faces of the other boys. 

"Bailiff, take those children farther back. Come close, my boy." 



226 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

She of the fur coat was thankful for keen hearing and nearness 
to the judge, as alert, with downcast eyes, she waited, engulfed in waves 
of pity for the boy. 

"Unless what, Eddy?" the judge's arm encircling the child's 
shoulders. 

"Less'n being cold 'n' hungry 'n' druv wid blows to the s'loons goes 
for somepen — I thought I'd fergit fer a spell — like pa — 'n' it felt warm 
— then I run agin the cop " 

"Did your mother try and prevent your going to the saloon?" 

"No, Jedge." 

"When did you eat last?" 

The question was almost inaudible. 

"Yisteddy mornin'." 

Every trace of gentleness fled from the judge's face, as he leaned 
eagerly toward the officer : 

"Swear out a warrant for the father and mother of this boy, charging 
them with contributing to a delinquency. I hold them more guilty than 
their son. 

"You will also get the name and address of that saloon-keeper who 
dares break the juvenile laws of this state." 

"Pa's skipped, jedge." 

The boy started to his feet as he spoke, to be again thrust back. 

"When, Eddy?" 

"Soon's he'd licked me fer swipin' the whiskey !" 

"Did he say where he was going?" 

"Jus any old place clear o' women V kids !" 

"We'll find him, never you fear! How does your mother treat you?" 

"She hain't got no time fer me, what wid diggin' 'n' cryin' V 
workin' wid the little kids. She says all she wants o' me is ter keep 
out o' her way." 

A long silence followed, Judge Findley's eyes wide and unseeing, as 
troubled thought went on behind the fixed inner absorption of his 
glance. 

"Eddy, my heart goes out to you, my poor boy, and I feel that 
you're not to blame for much of your wrongdoing. But you've got to 
be corrected and helped. If they hadn't got after me when I was a kid, 
I'd have got into bigger troubles, troubles they want to keep you out 
of, too." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 227 

Eddy perched on the very edge of the chair, with eyes devouring his 
Honor's face ; but ears closed to the pity of the firm voice because of a 
great roaring. A faint grayness tinged the wan, unchildlike face. 

"Because I believe it for your good, I shall send you to the School 
of Detention, here in Denver, for one month. It is under the charge of 
a very kind woman, who will see that you are kept warm, well fed and 
cared for. There'll be no chance to get into any trouble, and in this 
way I hope to keep you out of the Industrial School at Golden. When 
the month is up, we'll see what is best." 

The child pushed close to the court, his cheeks hot with a fleeting 
glow, the eyes big with excitement, while eager, pleading little hands 
were outstretched. 

"Oh, jedge ! Please, jedge " 

"Brace up, Ed, and take it like the man I know you can be ! 
Don't beg!" 

"But, jedge, please, won't yer please to make it a year? I'd ruther — " 

The judge started, leaning toward the child as he paused, but 
Eddy went white, clutching at the table for support. Swinging the 
reeling little figure into a chair, Judge Findley held water to the boy's 
lips. Low-voiced, gentle words sought to penetrate the giddy whirl of 
Eddy's thoughts, but these alone made an impression : 

"You need not go back to your home, my boy, at the end of the 
month, if you still feel as you do. We'll find you a better home, little 
chap !" 

The child closed his eyes and never knew that his head rested 
against Judge Findley's arm, or that the potent power of a patient, virile 
tenderness upbore his stumbling little life, never to be withdrawn, while 
great heart or clever brain throbbed within this man who remembered 
his own boyhood. 

Then the world cleared and steadied as something hot and beefy was 
forced upon him by a tender, womanly hand. He dimly heard the next 
case called and wondered dreamily why the "Jedge" sat with eyes 
covered by his hand. 

"We'll be going now, Eddy. Can you walk to the car, dear boy?" 
asked Mrs. Bright of the Detention Home, bending over her new charge 
with motherly gentleness. 

"Sure !" with plucky cheer. 

She held him so tight under one arm while leading him past his 



228 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE __ 

Honor, that the boy looked up with a feeble attempt at "joshin'." 

"On the square, ma'am. I won't work no blufr" an' give ye the slip !" 
He thought the whirling must be returning as he cast a look of fare- 
well at Judge Findley, for the blurred smile in the shadowed eyes of His 
Honor was not the clear one he knew. — Mary Talbott Campbell in Chil- 
dren's Home Finder. 

HOW HIS EASTER CAME. 

"It's so stormy, Godfrey," objected the invalid. 

"And so late in the week," counter-objected the stalwart youth of 
nineteen who smiled down into the white face on the pillow. "If it is 
to be done this week, mother, I must go to-day. There's not an hour 
to spare." 

"But you won't stop at Jonas Wyland's? Promise me that, God- 
frey." One thin hand caught at the broad palm resting on the coverlet 
and the pale lips quivered. 

"No, I will not stop at Wyland's, if that will comfort you, mother," 
answered the youth, a flush dyeing his dark cheek. "But," he added — 
for subterfuge was unknown to Godfrey Brent — "But Jonas has prom- 
ised to meet me at Y ." 

A swift pain traversed the sweet face of the woman. Her eyes 
closed for a moment as if in prayer. The young man patted the hand 
still in his. "I'm not such a bad fellow, mother, that you need be afraid 
to trust me out of your sight," he said, a trifle impatiently. 

"No, but — Godfrey, I am afraid, all the same, afraid. There's 
always the scent of strong drink about you when you've been with Jonas 
Wyland." 

"You've never seen me the worse for liquor, mother," cried the 
youth. "No one ever has, and no one ever will ! If I can take a glass 
with the fellows and no harm from it, why shouldn't I? It has not 
harmed me yet." 

"How can it help harming you, Godfrey? You are my own dear 
boy, but — but you're not what you were a year ago." The woman 
spoke slowly and with effort, ending with a little catch in her voice. 

"Not what I was a year ago! How can I be? A fellow must grow, 
must change. I can't be a man and a boy, too. It's time you trusted me 
a little. I'm not the fellow to be tied to an apron string or to walk 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 229 

in one rut lifelong. The constant round of grind on this farm is tread- 
mill enough. 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy/ I've got 
to have my play." 

"And welcome, if it's only clean play, Godfrey. Playing with edged 
tools is not fun ; it's foolhardiness." 

The youth's lips set. "Have it your own way, mother," he said, 
"only remember, I can't and won't be cooped up forever. I'm half-stifled 
as it is ! Take my liberty from me and I might as well die at once." 

"You're all I have, Godfrey." 

"Plus Sis, you mean." 

"All the man I have. All that either Sally or I have to lean on. 
You'll have to be brave and' clean for our sakes. Strong drink destroys 
both body and soul." 

The youth laughed as he stretched his long limbs and flung back his 
broad shoulders. "I look like a weakling," he said, glancing at himself 
in a mirror on the opposite wall. "Your fears are the result of your 
illness, little mother," stooping suddenly to kiss the pain from the lifted 
face. "I'm a pretty good boy to spare you so much of my time this 
morning. If I don't start soon, Sis will be up till midnight, waiting for 
my coming home. Rest easy and* don't fret; I'm big enough to take 
care of myself." 

The invalid clung to his neck. "God keep you!" she cried, "and 
may He bring you back to me safe and — sober!" 

The dark head came up proudly. "If you see me at all, mother, you 
will see me sober," he exclaimed wrathfully. "No one has ever seen 
me otherwise, and no one ever will." He flung himself from the room. 

"He is blind ! God help him ; he is blind !" sobbed the mother, as she 
nestled in the pillows. "O Thou who answerest prayer, deal with him 
to-day ; open his eyes to-day ; show him whither his steps tend, and how 
vain is his boast of strength while he tampers with alcohol; give him 
a glimpse of the truth ere it is too late ! O Father, Father ! save my boy !" 

The woman was still praying — though silently — when her daugh- 
ter entered the room a half-hour later. "See mother," cried the girl, 
"Godfrey has sent you the first arbutus blossoms of the season. Nell 
had wandered into the woods, and while after her, he discovered these 
darlings peeping out at him from under a drift of leaves. He says they 
are harbingers of good; messengers of cheer; and you are to keep them 
in sight till you see him again." The maiden held the fragrant beauties 



230 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

to her mother's nostrils for a moment, then yielded them to her hand 
while she smoothed the hair from the pale face and placed the pillows 
more comfortably for the dear head. 

"Godfrey grows so handsome I" she went on proudly ; "he looked like 
a prince as he rode off. He's sure Nell's colt will satisfy Mr. March, and 
that he will finish paying off the mortgage to-day and have enough 
money left to buy the grain and the shingles for the barn roof. And 
you and I are to allow ourselves only the happiest of thoughts all day, 
he says ; 'for though it is Friday, it is Good Friday, and must, there- 
fore, be lucky Friday.' Those were his words." 

"Good Friday!" Mrs. Brent echoed, a soft amazement in her voice. 
"Good Friday! I had quite forgotten it!" The words fell on her heart 
with strange soothing. Good Friday ! The day when He who was truly 
Good, paid the price of Brotherhood to the weak! Could God deny 
anything asked in Christ's name on Good Friday?" She held the arbutus 
close to her cheek, light growing in her tender eyes. This blossom, born 
in the cold, struggling up through darkness and frost to greet the light, 
must be truly a harbinger of good, a messenger of cheer. When Sally 
came in softly a little later, she found her mother sleeping quietly, 
her precious flowers pressed to her bosom. With a sigh of relief the 
young girl went out to finish the work about the house; she had feared 
her mother might have a restless day. 

As she busied herself with the dishes, with sweeping and dusting 
the dining room, Sally's thoughts followed the loved brother who had 
ridden forth an hour since. He was all the world to her. Loyally and 
jealously she had watched over and cherished him his life long, for she 
was two years his senior. She had discovered and exulted in every 
grace and charm of her baby brother. She had led him to school, 
pulled him on her sled, swung him till her arms ached. They had waded 
the brook and hunted for wild flowers and birds' eggs together; he had 
come to her in every difficulty for comfort and help ; until, suddenly, he 
was a whole head above her, could lift her with ease, brought in the 
wood and water nightly alone and did all the "chores." 

She never quite understood how it came to pass, but after that the 
petting and comforting changed hands. He called her "little sis," kissed 
her — as he did his mother — when leaving home and at bed-time. Her 
pride in him took a different groove. He was clever and led in his 
classes. The "examples" that puzzled her, explained themselves to him 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 231 

without effort; the sentences in English and the dates in history that 
were ever getting mixed in her memory, held separate and exact places 
in his. He became leader, she follower; he the authority, she his echo — 
such a loyal and admiring echo as few boys are fortunate enough to 
possess. 

When [their father died, Godfrey took another stride toward man- 
hood. His shoulders broadened, his protectiveness developed ; he became 
man and boy in one — the support, expectation and stay of two gentle 
hearts. Everything good and bright in the lives of the invalid and the 
fond sister centered in him. It was almost idolatry but idolatry so 
mingled with prayer and praise to the Giver of every good thing that it 
could scarcely have offended Heaven. 

Then a cloud arose, no bigger than a man's hand. Sally could well 
remember the first time her brother came home with that peculiar scent 
upon his breath. She was too innocent to know what it was, and 
asked him. He flushed crimson at the question, though he laughed at 
her ignorance. "He had stopped at Jonas Wyland's and had a glass of 
something good," he said. "Nothing to scare you, sis," he added, as 
she felt herself turning pale and caught at his hand, pleading, "There was 
no alcohol in it, was there, Godfrey?" 

That was a year or more ago, and she had detected the same taint 
on his breath often since, only stronger and accompanied sometimes by 
a strange light in his eyes, and sometimes by a little irritation in his 
voice and manner. She had come to dread his trips to the city and his 
stops at the home of his old chum — a friend he had made when he 
attended the academy, the last year of his father's life. That very 
morning, after her brother was all ready to depart and had placed the 
arbutus for her mother in her hands, she had brought the nearly banished 
clouds back to his brow by a reference to this youth. 

"Let Ches go," she had said, speaking of the great dog that was 
fawning on his master, pleading to go with him, though he had been 
bidden to return to the porch and stay there. "I always feel safer for 
you when he's with you. Let him go." 

"To keep me from harm? What nonsense!" laughed the youth. 
"You women need him more than I do. What danger can possibly 
come to me?" 

"Who knows? One can never be sure what may happen, especially 
when " The girl stopped short in her speech and flushed crimson. 



232 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Oh, say on !" cried Godfrey. "You have great faith in me. It's 
likely to make a hero of a fellow to be suspected and watched as I am ! 
Ches will stay at home, mind that ! I've never been in a state where I 
couldn't take care of myself, and don't expect to be." 

Sally was much distressed. "You know I do not suspect you or 
doubt your courage," she said. "You're the best brother in the world 
but for one thing. If you'll promise not to go near Jonas Wyland to-day, 
I'll be satisfied." 

"You'll have to be satisfied without any such promise from me," was 
the decided reply. "What's got into you and mother? You seem to 
think I am unable to look out for myself. I tell you, all this talk won't 
wean me from Jonas. He's a nice fellow and square. He doesn't make 
me drink. I drink because I want to, because other chaps of my age 
do, and because it doesn't hurt me. When it hurts me, it will be time 
enough to cry out." 

"It has hurt you already, Godfrey." 

"How?" 

"I don't know. I only know you're not quite yourself after it, and 
I can see a difference in you the last year." 

"A mighty great difference when neither you or mother can define 
it !" he exclaimed angrily. "I want you to stop this talk ! I give you 
notice now to quit it. I'll not stand it any longer. Mother's sick and I 
can't shut her up, but I won't have you at me, too." 

He was driving off without giving her a good-by kiss, but she ran 
after him, begging him to stop. "Oh, Godfrey, how can you make me 
feel so badly?" she panted, when he drew up at her entreaty. 

"Then don't lecture me," he replied. "I don't want to be hard on 
you, sis, but I can't stand everything. There, now, don't cry. I'll 
promise to be good, I truly will, and I'll have that mortgage paid off 
when I get back. Give me a kiss for good luck, and mind, you're not 
to allow yourself or mother any but the happiest thoughts to-day, for 
though it is Friday, it is Good Friday, and must, therefore, be luckv 
Friday." 

He sprang into the wagon. "Good-bye. What! You here again, 
Ches? No. I won't take you. Go home!" He snapped the whip at the 
great shaggy creature as he drove off, and Sally put out her hand to the 
dog. 

"Poor Ches ! You and I have to stay at home and eat our hearts 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 233 

out/' she said. But Ches was not listening; he was looking after his 
master. 

"You want to go?" questioned Sally. "Well, go; only keep out of 
sight. Go ! I'll feel better if you follow him." 

The day proved long to the girl, though to her amazement, it 
passed quietly, almost cheerfully, with the invalid. She wondered at 
the light in her mother's eyes, especially when night settled down and 
her brother had not returned. "He has been detained," said the woman. 
"He will come presently." But hour after hour loitered along, and the 
youth did not appear. Sally strained her ears as she sat at the window 
listening for the echo of hoofs on the road, but the stillness of death 
prevailed. 

Her mother awoke several times, and each time the daughter shrank 
from the question, "Has he come?" Yet after each negative the same 
reply came — sometimes breathed with a gentle sigh, always with quiet 
confidence — "He is kept for a reason. He will come." 

The first streak of dawn stained the east, the cocks in the poultry- 
yard crowed. The sun burst through the clouds and streamed over the 
weary girl whose eyes had not closed night long. She arose and went 
to the kitchen to prepare her mother's food. A neighbor's boy who 
helped with the chores, came to feed the stock and departed. The 
creeping hours of another day began. It was still young, when a farmer 
living a few miles distant, brought Nell Home. He had stopped her in 
her wild career past his place during the night. 

"The wagon warn't much hurt," he said, "jest a wheel off an' a 
shaft broke, an' I found the grain an' shingles all right a bit further up 
the road. But there wasn't hide or hair o' the boy. But that's nothin' 
queer," he added, looking kindly into the tense face of the girl. "There's 
folks a-passin' by most allays on that road an' likely somebody has 
found him with a sprained ankle or suthin' an' carted him home. He'll 
turn up afore long and you kin count on me doin' my level best to 
find him." 

And Sally begged him to speak lower lest her mother wake and hear 
him, thanked him for his kindness, and went about with a deathly, but 
controlled face, her soul heavy with the agony of dread beyond 
expression. The arbutus in the invalid's hand had wilted, but she would 
not part with it. "I must have it when Godfrey comes," she said. "It 
is the harbinger of good that is on the way, which is coming to me, 



234 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

though I am not strong enough to go out and meet it except by faith." 
Sally wondered as she listened. Was her mother's mind shaken? Was 
she losing her reason? 

All that Godfrey Brent had prophesied for that Good Friday came 
to pass. The beautiful three-year-old colt proved to be exactly what 
Mr. March wanted, and Jonas Wyland, who had heard of this gen- 
tleman's need, met the youth at Y and introduced him as he had 

promised. Jonas also accompanied him when he settled for the mort- 
gage and helped him load the grain and shingles on his wagon. Every- 
thing had turned out as anticipated, and Godfrey Brent was ready to 
start for home in time to reach it by midnight. He had refused to 
drink with his chum at their meeting; it seemed bearish and' ill-man- 
nered to refuse him again at their parting, especially after the good 
turn he had done him. So the youth hitched his horse and went with 
Jonas to take a single drink. It was while he was gone, that a big 
shaggy dog climbed into the wagon and stretched himself beside the 
bags of grain. 

Godfrey could never tell at what hour he left the saloon or in 
what condition. He had a faint recollection of Jonas unhitching his 
horse and helping him into the wagon. He remembered also that the 
sight of Ches aroused in him anew the anger of the morning, and that 
he took the whip to the faithful creature. After that all was a blank 
until he was awakened from what seemed sleep by a sort of jarring 
which was not so much a sound heard by his ears as a sensation felt 
through his body. He opened his eyes to the night sky and felt beneath 
him the sharp steel of a railroad track. He tried to lift his aching limbs, 
only to fall back with a groan as everything swam before his sight. 

He lay still awhile with closed eyes, recovering himself, until that 
jarring — grown more pronounced and accompanied now by sound — 
again forced him to look up. To his horror, the great red eye of an 
engine glared at him, and the awful sense of imminent death took hold 
of him. In an agony he groped about for a support and scrambled to his 
feet, only to fall again in a grovelling heap. What could be. the matter 
with him? Was he drunk? The shock of this possibility pierced him 
even in his awful peril, adding to his misery. Was he about to die? and 
drunk? A roar was in his ears, the iron monster was almost upon 
him. With an agonized cry for help, he lost consciousness. 

What restored him to himself again he did not know, unless it was 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 235 

the rough tongue of the four-footed friend who could not be driven 
away from him, and to whom, without doubt, he owed his life. It 
was dawn, and as he saw how near he yet lay to the track, he clung to 
the neck of his faithful deliverer with tears. Yet his bitterest tears 
were for the faith he had lost in his own integrity. He had been 
drunk, he — Godfrey Brent, drunk! Strong drink had harmed him, had 

brought him near to death and . Suddenly he remembered the horse, 

the wagon, the grain! What had become of them? Had he driven 
across the tracks in drunken imbecility? Had the horse been killed? 
The wagon wrecked? All lost? The cancelled mortgage! Was it lost, 
too? He felt in his inner pocket and a fervent "Thank God!" burst 
from his lips as he found it there. 

He did not get up immediately. Remorse and memory had him in 
their grip and faithfully reproduced for him the history of the past 
year; his first glass — taken almost fearfully — the second, — the easy 
fashion in which he had drifted to the place he now occupied. Liquor 
had harmed him, conquered him ! His lips set. It should never con- 
quer him again! He prayed — the big boy, conscious of his sin and his 
weakness — prayed to his mother's God, as he lay there under the sun, 
the first real prayer of his life, and it was for deliverance, for strength, for 
grace to be the true man his mother and his sister longed to see him. 
With the prayer came the realization of his mother's and sister's prob- 
able anxiety for him. He started up. He must get to them ! 

It took him hours to reach home, but should Godfrey Brent live to 
be a thousand years old, he will never forget the cry of joy which greeted 
his ears, as his sister — standing at the gate, peering down the road — 
caught sight of his approach. She was at his side in a second, her arms 
about him. 

"You are alive ! you are alive !" was her rapturous cry. 

"I am alive," he answered, brokenly, "but I have been dead, sis ; 
worse than dead !" 

His mother was asleep, and as the youth washed and as he ate, he 
told the story of the hours he had been gone — as far as he knew it — to 
the glad-faced girl who sat beside him. He was so worn from exhaustion 
and excitement that she insisted he should go to bed as soon as his 
hunger was appeased. "Mother will be content to know you are safely 
home," she said, "and I want to find and feed Ches." 

The Easter sun was shining into his room and across his bed, when 



236 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Godfrey awoke the next morning, a sense of peace in his heart such as 
he had never known. He answered gayly to the gentle tap on the 
door, "Yes, sweetheart. ,, 

"Then you are awake?" 

"Awake and glad, sis." 

"Mother is impatient to see you. She clings to that bit of arbutus 

still." 

"Bless her! I'll be down in a moment." 

The invalid looked up eagerly as the chamber door opened. The 
man who advanced to her bedside was not the boy of two days ago, 
nor yet the remorseful youth of a few hours since. He was radiant with 
a new-born faith and energy. 

"Mother," he said, as he stooped and pressed his lips to hers, 
"Little mother!" 

"My son," she quavered, holding the faded arbutus toward him. 
"It is Easter Sunday." 

"Yes," he cried, "my Easter, mother! I am risen from the dead! 
For," — his voice sank to a tender whisper and Sally, in the doorway, 
caught a rapturous breath, — "for I have been dead and am alive again 
— alive forevermore !" — Mrs. S. R. Graham Clark in The Union Signal. 

AUNT LIZZIE'S PRAYER ANSWERED. 

Coming home one evening, she found a poor, forlorn girl waiting 
to see her. She had no shelter fit to call home, and was clothed in rags. 

As she told of her misery, she lifted her tattered skirts and showed 
her feet, which were purple with cold, and incased in a pair of old, worn- 
out shoes. 

Aunt Lizzie had on the clothes-horse a pair of warm, woolen 
stockings. "Here," she said, "put these on, you poor child." A lady 
present remonstrated with her: "What are you doing, that is the only 
pair you have except those you are wearing? You have given away all 
the rest." "Never mind," Aunt Lizzie answered, "she needs them 
more than I. God will provide." 

The poor girl went away warmed and fed. The next afternoon 
Aunt Lizzie was invited out to tea. The hostess was showing her some 
new clothing she had been buying. In the bureau drawer near one end 
was a bundle of knit woolen stockings. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 237 

The lady said, "Take them ; they were knit by a relative in the 
country and sent me, but I never wear them." Thus she had returned 
to her thrible what she gave away. Her every act in life was to forget 
self, visit the poor and sick, pay the rent, strip herself of clothing, 
and supply their wants. 

"In all my life,'" she wrote in her diary, "I cannot recall where 
I have made a gift I ever regretted ; it invariably did some great good." 

To return to the young girl she gave the stockings to. She took 
her name and address, and in a few days she was in the neighborhood 
and found the number. 

The house was weather-beaten, windows broken out, and everything 
around dilapidated. She knocked at the door, the young girl opened it, 
and Aunt Lizzie stepped in. On a pallet of straw, in one corner, lay the 
drunken father. 

Pale and emaciated, on a lounge covered with rags, lay the forlorn 
mother. Aunt Lizzie's heart was touched with pity. She went to the 
woman and speaking kindly to her, said : "Why do you lie here in dis- 
tress when this world is rolling in wealth?" She faintly said: "My 
people have been good to me in years past, but because I would not leave 
my husband, they have disowned us all." 

"My poor little Laura, I could bear all this trouble better if it was 
not for her. Oh, what shall I do?" "I will do all I can for you," replied 
Aunt Lizzie, "but before I go I want your husband to arouse himself out 
of that drunken stupor; I want to pray for him." Laura ran to him and 
said: "Papa, Aunt Lizzie is here." His bloated face and sunken eyes 
peered out from the darkened corner: "Where is she? Has she got 
whiskey for me? I must have more whiskey, and they will not give 
me any more at the saloon." 

Aunt Lizzie stepped forward to where he lay : "Get up," she said. 
He screamed: "I want whiskey." She saw at a glance she could do 
nothing with him by talking, so she was determined to pray for him. 
She knelt beside him and implored God to open his blind eyes and 
restore him to manhood and repentance. 

She turned to the poor, forlorn wife, and said: "Will you go to 
the hospital till you get better?" "Oh, yes, but my sweet child — my 
little Laura?" 

"I will take care of her," said Aunt Lizzie. She immediately made 
arrangements for a patient at the hospital, and had Mrs. Goldberg sent 



238 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

there at her expense. She took Laura's grimy little hand in hers and 
went to the church store-room, where the ladies were sorting clothing, 
and tying it up in bundles. 

"Aunt Lizzie," said one of the ladies, "in yonder box is everything 
you will need for the young girl's outfit." She selected shoes and 
stockings, under clothing and outer garments, and hastened with them 
and the child into the toilet room. 

When Aunt Lizzie and Laura Goldberg emerged from the bath 
room, no one would have known the child. Aunt Lizzie took her to a 
childless couple, who gladly gave her a home. Mrs. Goldberg, through 
Aunt Lizzie's prayers, was converted, and immersed, and in a few days 
joined that happy throng in the heavenly kingdom. 

No trace of Laura's father could be found, and it was supposed he 
must have perished in the gutter, as the weather was very cold and 
damp. 

Aunt Lizzie diligently searched for him, but found him not. After 
a year had passed by, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Howard adopted Laura and 
gave her their honored name. 

These people were not Baptists, but good Christians. Laura, under 
Aunt Lizzie's teachings, became a shining light in the church and Sun- 
day school. When she was about eighteen years of age, after her 
graduation from the high school, she and her foster parents were taking 
a trip to Europe. When in London, England, they stopped into a cafe, 
where but one table, seats for four, were unoccupied. They immediately 
sat down and ordered their dinner. 

Presently a gentleman stepped in, tall and handsome, and about 
forty years of age, and asked if the company had any objections if he 
occupied the vacant seat. Mr. Howard said: "We will be glad of 
your company." Laura looked up into the man's face and cried out: 
"Papa, papa." 

"Is this my little girl Laura, that I have not seen for eight long 
years? Need I tell you, my child, not one drop of liquor has touched 
my lips since that day you and your mother were taken from me? Aunt 
Lizzie's prayer restored me to my manhood, and God in His wisdom 
snatched from my arms my wife and child. After you were gone, I 
got up and went to the docks and secured work. I remained there 
three months and when I drew my pay, clothed myself respectably, I 
then went in search for my wife and child. I learned your mother died 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 239 

in the hospital, and you were given by Aunt Lizzie to Mr. and Mrs. 
Howard ; I found you were in good hands. I left Chicago, working my 
way the best I could until I reached New York, with Aunt Lizzie's 
prayer ever ringing in my ears. I secured a position on a man-of-war as 
head cook. I had not been with them three weeks until I enlisted for 
three years. Our destination was to cruise around the East India 
islands, and when my time expired, I took up the enlightenment of those 
poor deluded natives. I established schools, and after a time, Sunday 
schools, and taught them as Aunt Lizzie taught me, the way to Christ. 
The consequences were : I left two flourishing churches, ten day schools 
and two Sunday schools. I have but recently returned to England, my 
native land, where my beloved parents still live. I would not come to 
them until I was sure I could withstand every temptation, and by the 
grace of God, I know I can, as He says in His sacred word : 'But seek 
ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things 
shall be added unto you/ I have told my parents of my marriage and 
your birth, and your mother's death. They insisted I go to America, 
search for you and bring you to them. I was here for that purpose, 
but this opportune meeting has changed my plans. Will you all go with 
me to their home on the river Thames, five miles from Windsor 
Castle?" The party took passage on a passenger steamer that glided 
down that beautiful river. Five miles below London they observed 
Greenwich, famous for its naval hospital for infirm seamen, and its 
observatory from which longitude is reckoned. They passed by mag- 
nificent castles, priories and abbeys, and in the distance they saw 
Windsor Castle, for many centuries the chief residence of English 
sovereigns. In the year of 1344 Edward the Third designed the new 
Tower for his Knights of the Garter. 

"When looking from the tower," explained Mr. Goldberg, "twelve 
counties are within the range of vision. In St. George's Chapel rests 
the bodies of Henry the Eighth, Edward the Fourth, Charles the First, 
George the Third, etc. Queen Victoria, during her lifetime, fitted up 
another part and called it Prince Albert's Chapel." The time passed 
so quickly and pleasantly, that Laura was surprised when the boat 
whistled at their landing place. 

A carriage was in waiting for them, as Mr. Goldberg had dis- 
patched to his parents they were coming. A lovely drive of half an 
hour brought them to a neat and commodious farm-house on the banks 



240 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

of the river Thames, surrounded by barns and out-houses. They alighted 
and were met by Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg, a fine appearing couple, about 
sixty-five years of age. 

When introduced to Laura, they gave her a royal welcome to her 
ancestral home, which, until that day, she had never heard of. They all 
enjoyed their visit sight-seeing. Two Sundays they went into London 
and attended services in Rev. Mr. Spurgeon's tabernacle, it having a 
seating capacity of six thousand people. 

He received into his church, while living, 13,000 persons, and 
erected thirty-six chapels in different parts of London. Rev. Mr. Spur- 
geon was one of the most talented Baptist preachers of the past cen- 
tury. Mr. and Mrs. Howard decided they had stayed as long as they 
could in England, as they wished to visit other countries ; but how could 
they leave their darling behind? Laura put her arms around them and 
said: "My more than mother, my more than father, to you I owe all 
I am, as you took me from the mud and mire of Chicago slums. You 
dressed and fed me well, you educated me, you and Aunt Lizzie have 
made me what I am, and not only that, you adopted me, and made me 
by so doing, your sole heir. Do you think I will forsake you? No, 
never, I shall be your own Laura just the same. I will stay part of 
the time with papa and my grandparents, and part of the time with you 
in Chicago. I have made a nice visit here; now I am ready to accom- 
pany you in a tour of Europe. " So it was decided, and in a few days 
they set sail across the English channel and made an extended trip 
across the continent. 

In two months they returned to Laura's home in England, and 
after a stay of a few days, they returned to America, accompanied by 
Mr. Frank Goldberg, as he was determined to see Aunt Lizzie and 
thank her personally for what she had done for himself and family. 
Laura had written Aunt Lizzie, informing her of how she so mysteriously 
found her reformed father, and the day they would arrive in Chicago. 

Aunt Lizzie had a sumptuous meal prepared, but she had a turkey 
roasted instead of the fatted calf. When they reached the house, Mr. 
Goldberg clasped Aunt Lizzie's hand and said: "I thank you again, and 
again, for what you have done for me and mine. Not one drop of liquor 
will ever pass through my lips again ; and your prayers saved me when 
I was on the brink of ruin." 

They all did full justice to Aunt Lizzie's dinner, after which Laura 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 241 

Goldberg-Howard returned to England with her father. For several 
years Laura frequently returned to the land of her birth to visit her 
foster parents and Aunt Lizzie. — The World Review-Herald. 

WHY I DESTROYED THE CARD. 

You ask me why I stamped that card in the mud? Well, it's a sad 
story, but as you seem interested, I will endeavor to tell it to you. 

Let me see, said Mrs. Marshall, wiping her eyes ; it is just twenty 
years ago to-day since John and I first met. Ah, I remember that 
childish face and laughing eyes as though it were but yesterday, and 
it hardly seems possible that I have lived through such sorrow as these 
years have brought me. Yes, I repeat it, it is a sad story. 

I was spending the summer at the little village of W . There 

were a great many young people there from different cities. One after- 
noon, as things were rather dull, someone proposed a game of poker. I 
noticed the expression of John's face change in an instant, and when I 
invited him to play, he politely declined to do so. 

I had been reared, like almost all of the girls there, to indulge in 
dancing, card-playing, and theatre-going, without thinking, as St. Paul 
did, of the "weak brother," whom I might cause to stumble. 

But by and by, as the game progressed, John grew more restless, 
and finally rose to leave. I asked him to stay, at the same time remind- 
ing him of his promise to go boating with me that evening. 

He stayed, and while we were alone on the water, I mentioned the 
cards. I had seen his dislike for them and was determined that he 
should play, as many of the girls had given him nicknames and laughed 
at him in my presence. I am not trying to excuse myself, but you know, 
Maggie, very few of us can bear to see the object of our love ridiculed. 
I see now how foolish I was to notice it. 

But that night when John told me he didn't care to learn to play 
cards and was sorry that I knew, I told him he was very foolish and 
knew little of the ways of the world. There can be no harm in these 
little amusements, I said, and if you wish me to give up all these things 
for you, I'll never do it. (Oh, was he not dearer than all this to me? 
But I knew he loved me and would do anything for my sake ; and how 
could I marry a "goose," as the girls had called him?) And I gave him 
back the ring he had given me. As I expected, when he thought I was 
in earnest, he yielded. 



242 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"O Ethel," said he, "y° u know I love you better than life, and 
cannot bear this separation. Yes, I'll go to the theatre with you, and — 
and play cards with you, too, if you will teach me how. I suppose, as 
you say, there isn't really any harm in it." 

You see, Maggie, he was trying to be a Christian, but he was not 
"strong in the Lord" — he had not forsaken all to follow Christ. Oh, 
if he had only trusted Christ to help him overcome this temptation, he 
might have saved us both many years of sorrow and taught me the 
nobler living. 

The next day he came for his first lesson. I found him an apt pupil. 
He soon learned to play better than the best players at the hotel, and 
I noticed with some uneasiness that it was his greatest delight to play. 
But as more visitors came to the hotel, and my time was spent mostly in 
pleasure seeking, I had little time to think of this. But before the close 
of the season he spent more time at the card table and in the ball room 
than ever I could approve of. But our marriage was to be celebrated 
the first of October, and I hoped after that he would be different; but 
in this I was disappointed. 

The first few months all was well. He spent his evenings at home, 
and we were very happy. However, we still kept our card tables. John 
could not think of giving them up. Our friends were invited to join 
in the games with us, and the social glass would be passed, until at last 
it seemed as if John could not do without it. 

By and by he spent so much of the time at the club that he was 
hardly ever at home, and when I complained, he replied, "O, there is no 
harm in card playing, dear." 

After a while we gave up the cards and wine. I didn't care what 
the girls said now. We never had any socials at home now, and I spent 
most of my evenings alone. 

One evening John came home and told me we must give up our 
beautiful home. He had lost so much for the last month; but I must 
not ask any questions ; he had rather not talk about it just then. "Just 
be patient," said he, "and I will tell you all about it; we can get our 
home back in a short time." 

We left there and went to a smaller house, and discharged all of 
our servants ; but this was not so hard to bear as the thought that my 
husband could not confide in me. There was some improvement in him 
after this ; he stayed at home more, and as Inez and Freddie grew older, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 243 

I thought he would surely give up his old ways, for he loved the 
children dearly. 

His old friends, however, could not let him go this way. They 
kept him at the bar-room as much as possible, and he drank more than 
ever. But I could not complain, for he kept repeating to me those hate- 
ful words, "There is no harm in it." Oh, have I not been paid for my 
folly! 

It was not long until he was forced to tell what he had kept back — 
he had lost our house gambling, and in trying to get it back, had lost 
everything. 

We then moved to this alley, and I take sewing to support myself 
and children. In my sorrow I have gone to the Lord and have obtained 
pardon, and am trying to bear patiently with my husband, hoping that 
some day he will learn his lesson and come back to God and receive 
pardon. 

I teach my children to abhor all intoxicating drink. They, knowing 
the sad story of my life, could hardly do otherwise ; and they have been 
converted and are going to be active temperance workers, and I trust 
their first work will be to reform their father. 

Do you wonder that I destroyed that card? Let us resolve to do 
what we can to suppress these evils that are blighting our land. — Miss 
Eva Carpenter in Way of Faith. 

UNROLLING THE SPOOL. 

John Lee had become unsteady. He had found the acquaintance of 
some fast young men, and every time he went down street, some one 
would ask him to drink, and then he would have to treat, and the 
habit of drinking so grew on him that he was fast becoming a drunkard. 
A good many nights, while he was sleeping off the effects of liquor he 
had drunk, his poor mother was awake, weeping and praying for him. 
Sometimes she would talk to him, and he would promise to do better, 
but he always broke his promise. Pretty Mary, who had promised to 
become his wife as soon as they could save enough money to go to 
housekeeping, noticed a change in him, and mistrusted that all was not 
right. But she kept hoping for the best, and saving her money to buy 
the furniture for the happy home she hoped soon to enjoy. 

One night John was brought home drunk; so drunk that the next 



244 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

day he was sick and heartily ashamed of himself. His mother talked to 
him long and tearfully. She told him of Mary's love and patience and 
faith in him, and ended by saying, "Now, John, if you will sign the 
pledge and keep it, at the end of six months I will make you a present of 
fifty dollars toward setting up housekeeping. I know I can get it some- 
how." 

John laughed and said: "All right, mother, I'll do it, and hold you 
to your promise." So John signed the pledge, and his mother began 
to save. It required close calculation to lay up several shillings a week; 
but she now trimmed her old bonnet, and turned her old dress, and 
mended her shoes, and patched her aprons and drank her tea weaker, 
and gave up drinking coffee, and ate the tiniest bit of meat, and in one 
self-denying way and another the little pile of savings slowly grew. 

John's appearance rapidly improved. He walked more briskly and 
stood erect; his eyes grew bright, his breath became sweet, his temper 
cheerful, and Mary thought him smarter and handsomer every day. 
Sometimes he peeped into the cracked teapot which held his mother's 
savings, when his eyes would twinkle, and a queer smile would curve 
his lips. 

He said to a friend, "It made me just ashamed when my dear 
mother offered to give me fifty dollars if I would give up drinking; 
and I made up my mind that I would be even with her. Says I to 
myself, 'If you can save fifty, I can save a hundred.' So I gave up 
smoking and bought me a tin savings bank, and every day I would drop 
in about what I thought my tobacco and beer would cost me. The 
day my six months were up, I emptied my savings bank; and would 
you believe it, there was over a hundred dollars in it ! Well, I took it to 
the bank and got one hundred new dollar notes, and then I got a spool 
and pinned the notes together and wound them around the spool, and 
then I ran a stick through the spool, so that the spool would turn around 
on the stick. I tucked it into my pocket and went around to see Mary, 
and invited her over to mother's to supper. After supper, says I, 'mother, 
do you know the six months are up to-day?' Says she, 'Yes, John, and I 
have fifty dollars for you.' And she got up and handed me the money. 
'Thank you ; it will be quite a help to us about housekeeping. Mother, 
will you please remain standing, I have a little present for you — some 
tobacco/ said I ; and I took out the roll of notes and had her take hold 
of the end of the one on the outside, and I held on to the stick in the 




'I held on to the stick in the soool and walked backward." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 245 

spool and walked backward. She kept pulling until we reached the 
end, and by that time she was crying and had to sit down. 

"Well, we had a jolly time, you'd better believe, and the next week 
Mary and I were married, and I have not drank a drop of liquor since. 
Then we commenced to go to a place of worship, and the Lord con- 
verted us, and now we have the neatest, happiest little home you ever 
saw. Come down and see us, won't you?" — Kind Words. 

THE LAWYER'S STORY. 

The young men had made great preparations for their fishing trip 
into the Indian Territory, and their disappointment was deep, when on 
the very morning they were to start, the lawyer, whom they all liked, 
told them he could not go. To make the matter worse, his explanations 
were very lame and unsatisfactory ; it was evident that he had given up 
the trip for some reason which he hesitated to name. 

As a last resort, the others went in a body — six of them — to his 
office, and demanded that he tell them exactly why he had deserted, 
when he had been most enthusiastic in planning the outing. 

"If you're really to understand it," he said, "I shall have to begin 
with my own boyhood. My father, the best father, I think, that a boy 
ever had, always showed me a tenderness which, even as a child, I 
knew was somehow different from the love which my playmates had 
from their parents. It was not until I was, perhaps, fourteen years old 
that he told me why this was so. 

"Although he himself lived a most exemplary life, his father, his 
father's father and two of his uncles had been drunkards. The taste for 
liquor he believed to be hereditary in our family, and in me he had 
recognized many of the traits he himself possessed, and which had made 
his own life a long fight against the habit of drink. He pointed out 
the danger that lay before me, and begged me to give him my promise 
never, under any circumstances, to touch liquor. Tt is your only safety,' 
he said. 'Unless you make this resolution, and have the strength to keep 
it, the odds will be fatally against you, for, like myself, you are easily 
influenced by others. If I thought that to-morrow you were to take your 
first drink, I should pray to God that you might die to-day.' 

"Of course I promised. He had never talked to me in that way 
before, and, of course, it made an impression on me. I was frightened, 



246 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and for several years I kept my promise. Then I went with some other 
young fellows on an all-day fishing-trip. While we were eating our 
luncheon, one of our number, a boy whom we all admired, took a 
bottle of whisky from his pocket, drank from it, and passed it to his 
next neighbor. The bottle went around the circle, for no one dared 
refuse to follow George Reit's lead. When it came to me, I tried to 
pass it on without drinking, but the others began to tease and ridicule 
me, until from sheer cowardice I took a drink. A second and a third 
followed, and I began to realize that I liked the stuff, and wanted more 
of it. My father's warning flashed across my mind : 

" 'If you take one drink, you may be forever lost !' 

"The rest of the day passed wretchedly enough, and I was glad 
when it was time to start for home. When I reached the house, I found 
that my father, whom I had left in good health in the morning, was 
lying at the point of death. He had had a sudden attack of heart-disease. 
They told me he was very anxious to see me alone, and with a breaking 
heart I entered his room. 

"He could not move and could hardly speak, but as I took his hand 
and bowed my head upon it, crying, he smiled tenderly and lovingly to 
me. When I grew calmer, he spoke, although the effort was pitiful to 
witness : 

"'Be strong — mother's sake — my sake — kiss me.' 

"As I bent down to kiss him, he noticed the odor of liquor in my 
breath. I shall never forget that look of agony, of despair, in his eyes. 

"'My poor — lost — boy!" he groaned; and these were his last 
words. 

"Since that day, God helping me, I have never touched a drop of 
liquor. But I know my weakness. I don't dare to expose myself to 
temptation, and I never knowingly go where liquor is to be used. This 
morning, while the provision wagon was being loaded, I saw that some 
one had sent along a case of whisky. Forgive me, boys ; I'm not preach- 
ing nor finding fault with you, but you see now why I can't go." 

"You can go and you shall go," spoke up the judge, who had pro- 
vided the case of liquor, "for the whisky is going to stay here." So the 
lawyer went, and a jollier, happier outing none of the men ever had. — 
Selected by The Bethel Record. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 247 

WHAT ONE BOY DID. 

They were just sitting down to the table, twelve boys, their faces 
bright, their eyes sparkling with the anticipation of the dinner that was 
before them. It was Clifford Ray's birthday, and his mother had said 
he might invite eleven of his friends to a dinner party. 

Clifford was an only child and an only grandchild and, strange as 
it may seem, he was blessed with three grandmothers. The way he 
came to have more than his share of grandmothers, was that his mother 
had married again, so there was her mother, his father's mother, and 
his stepfather's mother; stranger yet, they lived together, to all appear- 
ances in peace and concord, and vied with each other in petting and 
spoiling Master Clifford. 

The boys lost no time in starting on the good things, and they ate 
as only healthy, growing boys can eat. They did not talk much at first, 
they were too busy for that; but they enjoyed themselves thoroughly, 
which made Mrs. Ray and the three kind old grandmothers who waited 
on them, beam with pleasure. 

After they had got fairly started, Mrs. Ray unlocked the door of a 
little cupboard, built in the wall, and said smilingly, "Now, boys! I'm 
going to give you your choice of some very fine wine. I have all kinds 
here, you can take your choice, in honor of Clifford's birthday." 

"Oh, that's fine, mother!" exclaimed Clifford. "Come, boys, what 
kind will you have?" 

No one answered, so Mrs. Ray turned to the boy at the head of 
the table, George Karner, the biggest of the twelve, and the most 
popular; George usually took the lead in everything. 

As Mrs. Ray turned to him, he answered politely, but without the 
slightest hesitation, "I won't take any, thank you, Mrs. Ray." 

The boys looked at him in surprise, and Clifford's mother said, 
"What! Not any wine? Oh, you are so particular! Of course, it 
wouldn't do for boys to make a practice of drinking it ; but this is some- 
thing extra, and a glass won't hurt you, it will make a man of you." 

George was tempted to reply that he knew just what kind of a man 
it would make of him, he had seen men like that, but he did not like to 
say anything rude to Mrs. Ray, so he answered politely, but as firmly 
as before, "No, thank you. I really can't take it. Please don't urge me !" 

"Come, now! You won't refuse a lady, I'm sure!" 



248 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

All eyes were turned on George. He colored slightly as Mrs. Ray 
poured out a glass of the sparkling beverage and set it before him ; 
but his resolve was not shaken, and he repeated, "I'm sorry to have to 
refuse anything, but, indeed, I can't take it." 

Mrs. Ray was evidently annoyed. "Well, I won't press you, if it's 
against your principles to drink it," she said, and turned to the next 
boy with, "Well, you'll take it, Harry Clark?" 

George's refusal had given Harry courage to act. He knew his 
mother would not want him to take the wine; but he would not have 
been strong enough to refuse, if it had not been for his friend's example, 
so he said, "I don't believe I'll take any, either, Mrs. Ray." 

Frank Miller, who sat next to Harry, said the same, and so it went 
all around the table until it came to Clifford. 

"You'd better shut up the cupboard, mother, I don't believe any of 
the fellows want it." 

Then they went on eating their dinner and were soon as merry as 
if the interruption had not occurred. The incident was seemingly for- 
gotten. 

But there was one who did not forget it. In the next room there 
was a listener, of whom none of the boys were aware. Mrs. Ray's 
brother had long been a source of trouble to his family. It was the 
old story of bad company and then all sorts of dissipation. He had tried 
one business after another, to make a failure of all. At last he had 
gone away, and his family hoped that the separation from his old com- 
panions might reform him ; but he came back an utter wreck and failure. 

Howard Morse had come in while the boys were at dinner. He 
was sober then, but he intended going out later in the afternoon with 
a number of boon companions, and "making a night of it" as usual. 
The door between the dining room and the library, where he had thrown 
himself down on the divan, was open, and he heard his sister's offer 
of the wine and George's refusal. 

It reminded him of the time when he took his first glass of wine, 
and then he thought of the events which followed. Like all drunkards, 
at times he would have given anything he possessed to break the awful 
bondage, and now he wished heartily that when he had been offered his 
first glass, he had, like George, had the courage to refuse. Then the 
thought came to him, "Am I going to be outdone by a twelve-year-old 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 249 

boy? What he can do, I can; it isn't too late yet. If God will only 
forgive me and help me, I'll never touch another drop." 

A few minutes later the boys and Mrs. Ray and the three grand- 
mothers were greatly surprised to see Howard Morse walk into the 
dining room and greet them cordially. Since he had started on the 
downward path, he had kept taciturnly to himself when he was at home, 
and avoided meeting any of the people who visited there. This was a 
new Howard, surely. 

After dinner, instead of hurrying out of the house, he joined the 
boys in the library. He was so entertaining, instituting new games, and 
telling thrilling stones, that no one could believe the clock right when 
its hands pointed to the hour for leaving 

Reluctantly the boys went home, after bidding "Uncle Howard" a 
hearty good-night. 

As George was going, Howard caught his arm and drew him aside 

"I want to tell you, George, that you saved me to-night." 

George's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Saved you? I?" 

"Yes, it was your example in refusing the wine that set me to think- 
ing, and I resolved to never touch another drop of liquor or have it in the 
house. I would like to join your temperance society. I want to help 
save others who have been as low as I was." 

George was very happy that night, and when he prayed to his 
Heavenly Father, he did not forget to thank Him for the privilege 
which had been given him to save a soul by his example. 

Howard Morse kept his word. He not only joined the temperance 
society, but later on, the church, and was known throughout the com- 
munity as an earnest worker. 

Some years afterwards he started out as a temperance lecturer, and 
was the means of leading many souls from the "broad road that leadeth 
to destruction." And in all his lectures, he never failed to give credit to 
the boy who had stood firm for his principle, and by his example 
pointed him to the way in which he was now walking. — Anne Guilbert 
Mahon in Union Signal. 

A HELPMEET FOR HIM. 

When Kitty Hastings married the Rev. John Carter, the people 
said she had made a mistake. It was well known that John was not her 



250 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

only chance. She had had more than one wealthy wooer, but with 
the perversity of her sex, she had chosen John Carter, and John had no 
more money than she had. 

Kitty was a pretty girl, small and slight, with graceful, gentle ways. 
She had a pair of honest, clear, gray eyes, and anybody who got one 
look from them, trusted her at once. Everybody liked Kitty Hastings, 
and a good many people loved her. 

As for John, he was tall and slender; a scholarly-looking fellow, 
and indeed he had taken honors in his college course. There was 
nothing otherwise noticeable in his appearance, but there was a world 
of quiet determination written in the lines of his face, and he was, as 
Kitty often proudly said to herself, "as good as gold." 

And John had decided to become a Home Missionary. "What a 
mistake !" people said again. "He should take a Professor's chair in 
some college, where he could indulge his scholarly tastes." But John 
felt that he had a "call" and Kitty stood by him; so he applied to the 
Home Board, was accepted, and appointed to — of all places in the 
world — Bitter Creek. 

Bitter Creek was a typical Western town. The new railway run- 
ning through it made it the natural outlet for a series of mining camps, 
and the stream from which it took its name ran through a wild and 
fertile valley, sure to be occupied by settlers. The first house built 
in Bitter Creek was a slab shanty for a railway station ; the second was 
a liquor saloon, and on the third was the "Occidental Hotel," and in four 
weeks from the time these buildings were erected, Bitter Creek had 
seven hundred inhabitants and more were pouring in daily. 

When John and Kitty arrived at Bitter Creek, they went to board 
at the Occidental Hotel, but the prices of that establishment were far 
beyond John's slender purse, and he made haste to build a little cabin 
like the others. It was, perhaps, one of the poorest shelters ever called 
by the beautiful name of home, but John and Kitty were very glad and 
thankful to be in it, and just as soon as John had Kitty fairly settled, 
he set about his Master's business in good earnest. 

But how could a man like John, a little shy, a little stiff, a little 
formal in manner, trained in all the wisdom of the schools, but with 
no great knowledge of human nature, get into touch with such a com- 
munity as this? 

There was no room in the town where he could hold service, so one 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 251 

Sunday he invited them to meet him in the open air. He stood upon a 
dry-goods box, surrounded by a crowd of rough faces, and Kitty stand- 
ing close beside him, sang like a thrush : 

"I am so glad that our Father in Heaven 
Tells of His love in the Book He has given, 
Wonderful things in the Bible I see: 
This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me." 

They listened in silence while she sang, and were quiet during the 
opening prayer, but when John began to preach, interest flagged, and 
he found it hard to hold his audience. 

Still, they did not despair. John succeeded, after a little, in erecting 
a building where he could hold services, though few came to the 
meetings. But John put in a word wherever he could, and Kitty made 
friends wherever she could. There were a few children in the place, 
and they gathered them into Sunday school. People soon found out that 
Parson Carter and his wife were friends worth having in sickness. 
Kitty would go with nourishing and delicate food, ready to nurse or 
to do anything to relieve the sufferer ; and John was always by her side, 
strong and helpful. 

So they lived until after baby Jack was born ; and there never was 
such a baby, so merry, so hearty, so loving, and afraid of nothing in all 
the world. He was a little evangelist in his own right. Bitter Creek 
could not resist him. The rough miners coming down from camp used 
to pause at the window to see him while Kitty was putting him to bed, 
and she used to call them in, and put him, all rosy and warm in his 
little flannel nightgown, right into their arms. After the frolic, she 
would treat the company to cups of hot coffee, and taking the baby, 
would just sit down and sing while they listened, 

"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed," 

until the boy was fast asleep. 

One evening a messenger came for John, saying that a very sick 
man had need of him. On inquiry, it was found that the sick man 
was at a little settlement ten miles distant. John had never left Kitty 
alone at night before, and he hesitated. 

"You must go, John," decided Kitty. "You must not miss this 
chance to do the Lord's bidding." 

So, after a little consideration, John went for Mrs. Mulligan, a 



252 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

decent and kindly Irish neighbor, to come and stay with Kitty, and then 
started upon his lonely ride. 

That was a dreadful night at Bitter Creek. A company of miners 
were in town. There was a great deal of drinking and excitement, and 
finally a quarrel, a pistol shot, and a poor drunken wretch fell dead, 
pierced through the heart by a bullet. The saloon-keeper instantly put 
out his lights, fearing the fray would continue. There were a few 
moments of wild confusion, but presently the dead man's friends bore 
him into the air. They soon saw that the shot had proved fatal. Some 
started to apprehend the murderer, but others remained by the poor dead 
body. They tried to return with it to the saloon, but the keeper of 
that establishment prudently refused to open his doors again. So they 
placed the remains upon a shutter and bore them to the Occidental ; but 
the landlord there refused them a resting-place. It was a cold night, 
and something must be done, but no one knew where to go next for an 
asylum. At last one of the men spoke : 

"Boys/' said he, "let's go to Parson Carter's ; he'll take poor Harry 
in, I know." 

And so, about two o'clock in the morning, Kitty was aroused by a 
knock at the door. She hastily dressed, and opened it. 

"Where's the Parson?" inquired a rough voice. 

"He's at Brownville, with a sick man," explained Kitty. "What do 
you wish with him?" 

"Nothing," stammered the man, embarrassed by the unexpected 
reply. "It's no matter; don't you be frightened. We just wanted the 
parson for something, that's all." 

But Kitty had been looking at that black, motionless heap, which 
they had brought with them, and which they had laid upon the path as 
they parleyed. 

"Is anyone hurt?" she asked. 

"No, ma'am," said the man. "Leastways he ain't hurt now." 

"Is he dead? Why do you bring him here?" asked Kitty — she had 
not lived a year in Bitter Creek for nothing. 

"Because," answered the man in despair, "we ain't got nowhere else 
to put him." 

He tried not to swear before Kitty, as he told how he had been 
refused shelter for his poor dead friend, and how as a last resort they 
had brought him to the parson's. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 253 

"Kitty made her decision instantly. "You have done quite right," 
said she. "It is just what my husband would wish; bring him in." 

"Are you sure you won't be afraid, ma'am?" asked the man. 

"I am not afraid," answered Kitty. "Bring him in, lay him in the 
sitting-room, and I will take care of him until morning." 

They obeyed her, and laid their burden on the floor of the little room. 

Kitty went into the bedroom and returned with a pillow for the 
poor head which would never need one any more. She knelt by the dead 
man, and, folding back the old coat which covered him, she lifted his 
head and slipped the pillow gently under it. When she saw his face she 
knew it, and she could not repress one pitiful little cry, and then with 
hands that never trembled, she closed the staring eyelids, and going to 
the bedroom once more, she returned with a handkerchief of John's 
which she laid gently over the quiet face ; while the rough men stood 
awkwardly by, speechless, and watching her as if fascinated. 

"There." said she, turning to them, "you can go now; I will take 
care of him — poor fellow — until my husband comes." 

One or two of them tried to thank her with rough, husky voices, 
and one, the dead man's special comrade, asked if he should not stay with 
her until her husband came. But Kitty gently refused the offer, for 
indeed she was more afraid of the living than of the dead. She after- 
wards discovered, however, that this same man sat quiety upon the 
doorstep until he saw John riding down the road in the early morning. 

Kitty and her friend kept the vigil together. Mrs. Mulligan, upon 
her knees, murmured prayers for the dead man's soul, and Kitty, kneel- 
ing beside her, prayed also; but she prayed for the living; and so John 
found the two women when he reached home. 

That afternoon at sunset the murdered man was buried in the little 
graveyard which lay upon the bleak hillside just outside the town. John 
conducted the services. He spoke gently of the poor man whom they 
were laying away ; but he did not neglect to speak a few solemn words, 
which came right from his heart, to the little company who listened. 
He told them what their responsibility was for that sad tragedy, and 
reminded them that such an end might easily be theirs if their lives 
remained unchanged. 

That week a deputation came to call upon John and Kitty. The 
spokesman was the dead man's special friend. 

"Parson," said he, "we know you'd like to preach to us. We know 



254 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

it's your business, and we ain't behaved very polite to you about it, 
but now we're ready to listen. We know you're the right sort, an' as 
for your wife" — the speaker hesitated, and his voice shook — "she's the 
kind of a woman who makes a man believe in the angels, whether or no. 
There must be a God, or there couldn't be wimmen like her. And what 
we want to say is, if you have a big audience on Sunday, don't you be 
skeered. They'll behave perfectly respectful, an' you can say what you 
please to 'em;" and he added, shyly, "if Mrs. Carter would sing us a 
song, the boys would be mightily pleased." 

On Sunday the rude little church was filled to overflowing, but it 
was a quiet and respectful audience. And Kitty did sing; and John 
preached as he had never preached before, for he was filled with the 
power of the Holy Spirit ;and many souls were born again as the result 
of that blessed day's labor. 

These incidents happened a number of years ago. As was expected, 
the fertile valley filled with settlers, and John broke the Bread of Life 
to them, while Kitty went out and in among them, winning all hearts. 

"She is the one," said John, "who opens the way for me." 

Many of the settlers were poor foreigners, ignorant of many things. 
It was Kitty who taught their wives to make wholesome bread, how to 
cut their children's garments, and how to sew them neatly. She was 
full of a sweet wisdom as to the care and training of children and the 
nursing of the sick. And everyone who was in trouble turned to her 
for help and sympathy as naturally as a child goes to its mother. And 
what she was, and is, to her husband, with her indomitable courage and 
cheer, her sanctified common sense, her lovely intuitions, and her utter 
unselfishiness, only he knows. 

By-and-by there were schoolhouses built in that valley, and John 
and Kitty had the help of intelligent men and women in their work. 
At last a beautiful church was built, and paid for, and John had the 
happiness of preaching the first sermon ever heard within its walls. 

Then the Home Board said to John : "Another man can carry on 
this work, while you are peculiarly fitted for the frontier. Will you 
not go again to the front and open another new field?" 

And John, like the true Soldier of the Cross that he is, answered, 
"I will go ;" and to-day he stands again in the front rank with his face 
to the foe, and Kitty stands by his side. 

Among friends of Home Missions, John's worth, I am glad to say, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 255 

is recognized, and the magnificent work which he is doing is spoken 
of appreciatively. But Kitty's labors are not noticed. Her name is not 
"mentioned in the dispatches," and yet the fight is hardest upon her, 
and she shows a courage which even transcends John's. In fact, John 
could never do the work he does, without her. 

She has four little mouths to feed now, and four dear little bodies 
to clothe, and yet John's salary is no larger than it was when he was 
married, and even that is not always promptly paid, for the Board 
itself is sometimes in debt to them, because the great Presbyterian 
Church does not pay all "its tithes into the storehouse." Kitty has to 
work far too hard. She scrubs, she cleans, she cooks, she sews; she 
stops at nothing by which she can make her family comfortable; and 
she helps John in the parish work besides. 

Kitty has grown too, early old, and she is very tired. She does not 
falter. No ; but unless help comes soon, she will slip from John's side 
like a wreath of snow in the spring sunshine, and to her husband and 
children, and to the church of Christ, her death will be an irreparable 
loss. 

Kitty is not the only woman whose precious life is being poured 
out like water upon the Home Mission fields of the Church, and in these 
days, when the cause of Christ needs every helper, is it right for us 
who stay at home, to allow our sisters who are bearing the burdens and 
the heat of the day, in the tremendous conflict which is now going on 
between the evil and the good, to make so costly and so needless a 
sacrifice? — Woman's Board of Home Missions of the Presbyterian 
Church. 

THE STORY OF "OLD WIESMAN." 

Mr. Melvin E. Trotter, of Grand Rapids, Mich., is a converted 
drunkard and an earnest worker. In the course of a characteristic ad- 
dress, given in colloquial language (at the Norfield Conference), he told 
the story of a noted convert known as "Old Wiesman." 

- "Old Wiesman would come to our mission over and over again. 
And he would come forward and 'get religion' just as often as we would 
ask him, and then he would beg a quarter (of a dollar) and go out and 
get drunk again. He could cry on short notice, and had a long mous- 
tache that would catch his tears. Then, when I got out of patience, 



256 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

he would bring up my past life to me, and tell me how much worse I 
had been than he ever could be. He had a way of working himself up 
into great religious fervor, by getting a chair in front of him and pound- 
ing that, and making all kinds of promises to be good. But he would 
always end up by saying, 'Now give me a quarter !' 

"And he would go out, and we would not see him for a few days. 
But he always turned up at the end of that time in a worse state than 
before, and would 'get religion' all over again. When we argued with 
him, he would say, 'Well, you men know how hard it is, and I really 
do try.' And then he would try me for another quarter. I never had 
the heart not to give it to him. I never refuse. If I did, I would have 
more money now. All old 'spongers' always ask for a quarter. That is 
the proverbial amount. And they always 'have not had anything to eat 
for three days.' It is never two, or two and a half days, but always 
three days. 

"Well, the old fellow came in and stayed in for a year and a half 
or two years. But he fell again, and for a while we lost track of him. 
I had office hours, and one morning I set out to write my annual report. 
Now, if any of you have had your early education neglected, you know 
how hard it is to write. Then came 'Old Wiesman' once more, more 
drunk than ever. He said : 'Brother Trotter.' I cried : 'Don't bother 
me;' and turned him out. 

"In the meeting I got down on one knee and I prayed : 'Lord, I 
treated that old fellow just right. I am glad I threw him out. He is a 
disgrace to our mission. He just gets drunk over and over again, and 
he 'works me' until I am tired of it. My prayer never got any higher 
than my hat. But I went and told the Lord all about what I had done 
without any bad conscience. I went across the street to the hotel for 
dinner, and I never had a worse meal. Nothing was right. 

"That night when I went home, I did not lead the family prayers. 
Little Phoebe, a little girl we have in our house, read the Bible, and my 
wife prayed. She said : 'O Lord, if there went anything wrong with my 
husband to-day, please help him.' I went to bed, but I could not sleep. 
I got up, and knelt down in a big leather chair I have. I fell on my 
knees, but for once I could not pray. But I heard a voice say to me: 
'Trotter, did I treat you like you treated old man Wiesman, when you 
were drunk and down, and had not a friend in the world ? Did I kick 
you out in the cold? I suffered much more for you than you did for 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 257 

old man Wiesman. I suffered and died on the cross for you, and is 
that the way you treat a poor man in need?' 

"Then I began to pray for forgiveness. I never loved a man so 
much in my life as I did old Wiesman when I had been praying for 
about five minutes. I just loved him with all my heart, and I have 
loved every drunkard ever since. And that is the only way I am able 
to help these men. I just love them to God. I never forget that I was 
a drunkard, and that Jesus found me when I was the drunkest ; for which 
I have been praising Him ever since. Then I remembered that Wies- 
man had told me over and over again, that I was the only friend he 
had, and that when; I threw him over he would kill himself. 

"I just prayed and prayed that God would give me back old man 
Wiesman. I sent each of my men out in a different quarter to look for 
him. I told them not to come back until they had searched every saloon 
and cheap lodging-house in the quarter. But they searched and searched 
without effect. One night, shortly after, I was on a gospel wagon 
holding a service, and all of a sudden I spied my man. I sprang down 
from that wagon and ran to him, and just put both arms around him 
and said: 

" 'O Wiesman, I love you/ He was drunk and dirty, and his mous- 
tache was longer than ever. He sobbed and sobbed until it was full, and 
he said: 'Do you love me, really, Brother Trotter?' And I said: 'Yes, 
Brother Wiesman, I do. Why, man, I have looked this town over for 
you/ He said: 'Do you really love me?' and I repeated: T do/ 'Then 
lend me a quarter, Brother Trotter/ he said. And then he sobbed real 
hard, and he did it very well. I said: 'Old man, will you forgive me? 
I am so sorry I kicked you out that day. I have been mad with myself 
ever since. For the Lord's sake, forgive me/ And Wiesman said : 'Yes, 
if you really love, of course I will forgive you ; but give me a quarter.' 
I gave him half-a-dollar, and said : 'For God's sake, don't drink that up.' 
Then I made him promise to come to the meeting at the mission that 
night. He did, and the very first one to come forward for prayer was 
old Wiesman. He was really and genuinely converted that night. He 
showed me thirty-five cents of the fifty I gave him, and the other fifteen 
had gone for supper. He was sober, too, and he stayed sober. And I 
tell you, my friends, I have never kicked a man out since then. My 
message is to love drunkards, for that is the only way you can save 
them." — London Christian. 



258 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

A SALOONKEEPER'S PLEA. 

The Newman M. E. Church is the largest in the city of Blooms- 
barre, having over eight hundred members. 

The official board is in session. 

A very animated discussion is going on over the withdrawal of 
twenty-seven members of the church. Dr. Williamson, the eloquent 
pastor, is speaking. 

"I admit, that in point of numbers, twenty-seven out of over eight 
hundred would make but very little difference, but see who the twenty- 
seven are — the very ones who carry on our prayer meetings and attend 
to the spiritual affairs of the church. It is true, that they are not the 
wealthy part of our church, but a church can not be run by money alone. ,, 

"Brother Williamson," spoke up the Hon. Chas. Smith, a member 
of the legislature, "I say, let them go ; we will get along better without 
them. They have gone grown crazy over the Prohibition party, and 
right here in our prayer-meeting some of them have grown so bold as to 
declare that any man who did not vote their ticket was supporting the 
liquor traffic. Now, I claim to be as good a prohibitionist as any man in 
the Prohibition party, and, indeed, a better prohibitionist, for the reason 
that I had the honor of voting for the enactment of our present license 
law, which has done more for temperance than the Prohibition party will 
ever accomplish." 

Then Judge Grant, one of the county judges, spoke up: "Gentle- 
men, this recent discussion about the church being the bulwark of the 
liquor traffic is nothing short of blasphemy in calling the faithful fol- 
lowers of the Lord Jesus Christ the upholders of the rum traffic, the 
greatest curse the world has seen. I agree with Bro. Smith, let these 
Prohibition cranks go, and our church will go on in peace." (Applause 
from the other members of the board.) 

"Of course," said Dr. Wiliamson, "we will have to give them their 
letters, for we can find no fault with their Christian character. But 
v/e have none to take their places in the public prayer service. This 
is one of the evils of bringing politics into religion; they won't mix. 
The Grand Old Republican party is a good enough temperance party 
for me, and while it is not up to the standard on the temperance 
question that I would like to see it, yet I am not going to throw my 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 259 

vote on a party that hasn't a ghost of a chance of electing its can- 
didates." (Applause.) 

"I don't understand what these fanatical Prohibitionists want," said 
the Hon. Mr. Smith. "Our church, as a church, has declared that the 
'liquor traffic cannot be legalized without sin/ and nothing stronger 
could be uttered. The man who sells liquor for a living is worse than 
a " 

Just then there was sharp knock on the door. 

"Come in," responded the double bass voice of Dr. Williamson. 

The door opened and the portly form of the saloonkeeper across the 
street appeared in the doorway. He was the first to break the oppressive 
silence. 

"Gentlemen, knowing this to be your regular meeting, I decided to 
come over and inform you that I and my family have made up our minds 
to join your church and help along the good work you are doing." 

This speech was greeted with dumb astonishment by the members 
of the board. Dr. Williamson was the first to speak : 

"Have you given up the saloon business ?" 

"No, sir," replied the saloonkeeper. 

"Are you going to ?" 

"No, sir! I am conducting a respectable place, and see no reason 
why I should." 

"Well," slowly replied the doctor, "our church rules prohibit us 
from taking in dealers in liquor, and for that reason we must refuse 
you." 

"Oh," said the saloonkeeper, a flush of anger coming into his already 
florid face. "I was not aware of that. On what ground does your 
church refuse to admit saloonkeepers?" 

"On the ground that they are engaged in a business that sends 
souls to hell," replied Dr. Williamson. 'The Bible says that no 
drunkards shall inherit the kingdom of God, and therefore no drunkard 
maker can. More than that, the liquor traffic cannot be legalized 
without sin." 

The saloonkeeper was thoroughly aroused by this time, and in a 
suppressed, angry tone he asked : 

"Do you know that a great many of your members are regular 
customers of mine?" 

"I have heard that some were," said Dr. Williamson. 



260 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Do you know that two of this official board, now in this room, 
are among my regular customers ?" 

No reply, but two very red faces showed who had been hit. 

"Do you know that I got my license from Judge Grant, who sits 
right here, for which I paid the regular license fee?" 

"Hold on," said Judge Grant, "you are going too fast, my friend ; 
I do not make the laws, and I am compelled by the license law to grant 
licenses ; therefore, I am not responsible." 

"Well, the law was enacted by Mr. Smith, there, and other repub- 
licans." 

"You can't place the responsibility on me," said Mr. Smith. "I 
carried out the wishes of those who elected me. Had I been elected 
on a Prohibition platform, I would have voted for a prohibitory law. 
'My party stands for license, and I voted for the law." 

"I understand that fully," said the saloonkeeper, "but I voted for 
you; so did Judge Grant; so did Dr. Williamson, the rest of this board, 
and the majority of voters in your church. I took it for granted that all 
who voted for you believed in license. Now, I am politely told that I 
cannot join this heaven-bound band, and that I shall go to hell. Dr. 
Williamson here voted for you, Smith, to pass a license law which com- 
pels Judge Grant to give me a license — to go to hell! I am the fourth 
party to the agreement, and, without the consent of you three, I could 
not engage in the whisky business. You three are bound for heaven, 
where you will wear crowns and play on golden harps, while I am to 
suffer the torments of the damned ! Gentlemen, if your Bible is true, and 
I go to hell for selling whisky, you will go with me to hell for voting 
to give me the legal right to do so. Good-night." 

With that he vanished, closing the door behind him with a vigorous 
slam. 

The members of the official board looked steadfastly on the floor, 
each one seemingly afraid to break the silence. They were Christian 
men; believed they were doing their Christian duty. But the saloon- 
keeper, in his fierce arraignment of those present, had placed a tremen- 
dous responsibility on their shoulders. Each one was doing some pretty 
serious thinking, when Dr. Williamson ended the silence by saying 
slowly : 

"Brethren, that saloonkeeper told us some terrible truths. Brethren, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 261 

our hands are not clean, nor our skirts unspotted. Let us go home 
and pray for light." — Tallie Morgan. 

ELI PERKINS JOINS A DRINKING CLUB. 

Being Told There Is More Drinking Than Ever in Maine and Kansas, 
He Makes an Investigation. 

"Sellin' whiskey in Kansas !" exclaimed the purple-nosed railroad 
passenger, as he bit off a chew of plug tobacco while the train was pull- 
ing out of Topeka. "Drinkin' whiskey! Why, they're drinkin' more 
whiskey than they ever did before !" 

"But we never see any barrooms," I remarked. 

"No, they ain't no bars, an' they ain't no sign of a bar; but they's 
drinkin'." 

Then I rode through the state without seeing a barroom, a drunken 
man, or a sign up where whiskey was for sale. Valuable corners were 
occupied by stores, and the money that used to go into the open saloons 
was going into the stores. I found that Kansas used to send out $15,- 
000,000 a year to Peoria and Kentucky for whiskey, and now she is send- 
ing out about a million a year. I found that Kansas is now saving 
through temperance $14,000,000 a year, and in ten years will save $140,- 
000,000 ; and still that red-nosed lounger in the smoking car is continually 
screeching through the car : 

'They's drinkin' more whiskey in Kansas than they ever did before !" 

Up in Maine I heard the same whiskey-drinkers' refrain. It never 
came from a church member or from a prosperous moral business man. 
It always came from a drinking man. So during my last trip through 
Maine I decided to investigate and find out if the law preventing drunken- 
ness doubled the drunkards — if the law preventing the sale of whiskey 
really increased the sale of it. 

Well, a lecture engagement called me up to Farmington, twenty-five 
miles north of Lewiston. As the engagement was for Saturday night, 
and as no trains run on Sunday, I had to drive up from Lewiston. It 
was a ten-dollar ride through the snow. 

"This is a temperance state, isn't it?" I said to the stableman as he 
was hitching up his team. 

"Temperance state!" he exclaimed; "why, they'pourin' down whis- 
key here — drinkin' more'n they ever did before." 



262 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Hadn't you better take a hot milk punch before we start?" I said. 

"Hot milk punch !" he said, his eyes snapping with joy ; "yes, it 
would taste good; but you can't get those fancy drinks up here. No 
bars, you know, an' you've got to make them fancy drinks at home." 

"But when there is so much drinking there must be bars near by," 
I said. 

"Well, they're drinkin', all the same, but we don't have bars. We 
have to manage a little, and it takes time, you know." 

So we started off for the long twenty-five mile ride through the 
snow. We passed several hotels, and stopped and warmed. There were 
no barrooms, and hot lemonades were the only drinks to be had. 

We found Farmington without a bar, and a thorough temperance 
town. The audience that greeted me showed temperance, intelligence 
and prosperity in their faces. 

Coming back the next morning, I said to my driver: "It is strange 
that people will so traduce this temperance state." 

"They don't traduce it," said the driver. "They's drinkin' goin' on 
here. I can get you a drink." 

"You can get me a drink," I said with an accent on the "can." 
"Why, of course you can," I said enthusiastically; and when we get to 
Lewiston we'll have some nice hot whiskey, won't we." 

"I'm afraid I'll be too busy putting out my horse ; but I could get 
you a drink if I had time." 

"But I'll pay a boy for unhitching the horse," I said, as we drove 
into the Lewiston stable. "Now, let's have the drink, come on !" 

"All right," said the driver. "I think I can get a drink ; but mebby 
the whiskey is out, and we'll have to take bottled beer." 

Then I followed him through the dried weeds and snow along the 
river bank. 

"This isn't the way to a saloon," I said. 

"No, I'm going to Mike Grady's. Mrs. Grady has some beer left 
over from a funeral." 

When we reached the rear end of Grady's cabin, the driver knocked 
on the door. 

"Be aff from there !" said an Irish woman's voice. "It's no use 
comin' round here. The perlice has been round here, and poor Moike 
has gone wid 'em." 

"Con — found it!!" said my driver, striking his left hand with his 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 263 

right fist; "the police are always gettin' on the end of a wake. But I 
can get you a drink yet." Then he looked at me quizzically, and said: 

"Will you join a club ?" 

"A what!" 

"A club." 

"Yes, I'll join anything to get the drink. I'll join the Masons, join 
a hose company, join a church — anything." 

"Come along, then. I know where it is." 

Then I followed him across the bridge and up on Maine street. Then 
he turned up a pair of stairs, and I followed him up three stories to a 
door with a little wicket door in the center, where he gave three knocks 
and the wicket flew open. Then commenced some low whispering, and 
then the big door slowly opened. 

"Fifty cents is the price of membership," he said, holding out a card 
with my name written on it. Then we went to the next room, where 
there was a bottle of whiskey on the table. I took it in my hand and 
smelt of it. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"Oh, don't be afraid of it. It's whiskey." 

It was whiskey — Maine whiskey, but such whiskey! My man had 
kept his word. I looked at the bottle, then looked at my membership 
card. I have that card now. I'm a member in good standing. 

"Well," I said, "this is pretty near prohibition. If walking eight 
blocks, climbing up three pairs of stairs, joining a club of drunkards, 
and paying fifty cents to look at a bottle of vile poison, isn't prohibition, 
I never expect to see it." 

If any clergyman reading this article doubts the truth of my story, 
I will send him my membership ticket by return mail — with my affidavit 
appended. 

Prohibition does prohibit whiskey about as much as the law pro- 
hibits stealing. They still steal, but they steal less. If the penalty 
against liquor selling were as strong as it is against murder, there would 
be as few liquor sellers as murderers, and there would be less tears and 
less poverty in this world, and less sulphur in the next. — Eli Perkins, in 
the New Voice. 

WHAT A TREMENDOUS PRICE. 

For two terrible days I was a drunkard's wife. Yes, Joe was drunk 



264 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

once ; and that for so brief a space that it could easily be blotted out of 
the years ; but, with his one swing of the black scythe, Joe wrought 
more than some do in a life of drinking. 

We had been married about four years when it all happened. Dur- 
ing those years there had been no intoxicants in our home, nor had Joe 
partaken of them elsewhere ; but I didn't know that his grandfather died 
a victim of drinking, nor that his father, through life, fought an inherited 
appetite. 

It was the second time Joe had attended his club since his recovery. 
I remember little Grace held out her hands and cried to go with him. He 
gazed at her a minute, then said to himself: 

"I wish I could take her with me;' 

I knew afterward that the temptation was upon him. 

When Joe came home that night he was — drunk, my husband drunk. 

Old Mr. Symons helped him up the steps. 

"Just be patient, Mrs. Hunter," he said to me, "he'll be all right, he's 
too good for this. I'd a kept out o' sight only I thought you'd feel better 
if you knew it was only me ; I'll keep what I know," and with that assur- 
ance, the good old soul went away and left me with my drunken husband. 

I cried out in my strange despair: 

"Joe must be saved, by God's mercy and help, he must. He must 
stop, and at once, and little Grace must never know that her father was 
one day, and one day only, a drunkard. 

"How can it be done? 

"The crystal tears of wives before and with me are flowing against 
the purple tide of woe. The cry of little children shrieks out against 
the clamor of the bar-room. These are apparently of small avail; but 
little Grace and I must save our loved one." 

I depended much on Grace, how much I did not know. But God 
must sometimes use severe measures. 

Joe didn't go down to his office till after noon next day. Grace had 
been very sick with the croup, and I took that as an excuse for begging 
him to stay at home that day. 

"Your mother will be over and help you take care of Grace," he 
assured me. 

"Mother won't be here till evening; you surely won't go out again 
tonight? 

"I'm very busy, Mary." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



"Well, kiss Grace good-bye." 

My heart sank, but I thought Grace in her mute appeals, could do 
more than I could by argument. 

"I'd like to take her with me." 

Again I knew how hard it was for him to resist the temptation to 
drink. 

Joe didn't come home for tea as usual. My mother came and went 
and I was left waiting, waiting far into the midnight hour. Then I heard 
someone come into the yard and fumble at the window. I started for the 
servant's room to arouse her, but my heart forbade me ; then I went 
boldly to the window and raised the blind; there he was. I went out 
and helped him in. 

He slept heavily for two or three hours. I listened to his broken 
breathing, then to the soft slumbers of Grace, in her little cot, interrupted 
occasionally by her croupy cough, for which I administered her cough 
medicine. Toward morning my nerves became so exhausted that I fell 
asleep. Grace had a severe attack of coughing, but it did not suffice to 
arouse my weary senses till I heard Joe speaking in a thick voice, and, in 
the gray dawn, I could see him standing beside Grace's cot. 

"Joe!" I cried, "what are you doing?" 

In the same thick tones he replied that he was giving her some med- 
icine for her cough. I was at his side in a second ; but it was too late ; 
he had given her the medicine and her little body was already beginning 
to writhe under its effects. I took the bottle from his hand. To my 
horror, it was not a medicine bottle, but a small jar containing a carbolic 
disinfectant that I kept on a table remote from the medicine chest. 

I did everything I could for Grace, and, being a trained nurse, I felt 
that nothing more could be done. But in ten minutes she was gone ; 
gone where she would know what her father had done, and what she had 
done to save him. 

The awfulness of the next two hours ! I felt paralyzed. Joe's stupor 
was wearing off; he knew that something was wrong with Grace, but 
he was ignorant of his terrible crime. I couldn't find it in my heart to 
cry out against him, to arouse the servant, or call the neighbors. Those 
two awful hours in a home of every comfort and with the tenderest of 
husbands — but he was drunk, and, unknown to himself, had committed 
a crime. 

Then I sent for my people ; they came, they did everything that was 



266 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

to be done. I took care of Joe. They asked few questions ; just left us 
alone in our sorrow. They little knew how great that sorrow was ; no 
one but myself knew; Joe didn't know, how could he? He was drunk, 
but the effect of the liquor wore off and Joe was himself as he always 
had been except for those two days. Still, I didn't tell him; as it was, 
his remorse was all that he and I could bear; so I kept the terrible 
secret alone during the days that all that was mortal of Grace lay there. 

Joe and I were alone that evening in our little sitting room. The 
others were around the house somewhere, doing what they could; it 
mattered not to us what they did. Then the burden of my secret came 
upon me ; it crushed me. 

"Joe." 

"Yes," Mary." 

Then I told him. 

It was not for Joe only that the price was paid. In the lonely years 
that have followed Joe has gone into the thickest of the fight against 
drink and has saved many a poor, innocent child from the clutches of a 
drunken father. — Maine Temperance Record. 

WHY THE JANITOR WAS NOT DISCHARGED. 

"The Principal said it dreadful cross," announced Bobby Burke to 
a group of boys and girls in a corner of the school yard. "He said, 'Pe- 
terson, if this happens again, I shall certainly report you to the Superin- 
tendent, and you know what that means.' " 

"He's been doing it lots lately, most every day," said Nan Crockett, 
"only Professor White never caught him at it." 

"It's straight against the rules that he should drink beer, my papa 
says," said Don Russell, "and why such a nice man as Mr. Peterson 
should do it, I can't see." 

"I guess I know partly," piped up Jean Gladding. "Mr. Peterson's 
wife, she's mostly sick and they never have regular meals, and he just 
has to bring a dry, old lunch, and probably, Uncle Ned says, he wants 
the beer to wash it down with, or thinks he'll get a free lunch with his 
glass of beer." 

"It would be just dreadful if they 'fired' Mr. Peterson and had a man 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 267 

for janitor like the one they have at the Babbitt School, who don't like 
boys and girls a bit," said another. 

"Mr. Peterson's just splendid. He taught me how to skate last win- 
ter," chimed in Nell. 

"And he pulled Don and me to school on our sleds lots of times," 
added Dorothy Russell. 

Then the bell rang and Mr. Peterson and his troubles were forgotten. 
Not forgotten by all, however, for Donald and Dorothy Russell kept 
thinking of him all the afternoon. 

"I could let him have my orange every day," said Dorothy, as they 
trudged home that afternoon. 

"And mother always puts in an extra sandwich ; he could have 
those ; and let's go without pie ; we always have cookies, too," said Don. 
When they talked the matter over with Mother, she entered heartily into 
their plans. 

"What he ought to have is something hot to drink," she suggested. 

"Mother," said Dot at last, "if Don and I would promise to wipe 
every single dish after dinner at night, do you suppose t'hat Ann would 
bring us over a little pail of real hot coffee every day just before the 
bell rang?" 

"Ask her," said Mother, with a smile. 

Mr. Peterson had half a notion not to try to eat the dry, hard lunch 
he knew he would find in the newspaper parcel in his overcoat pocket. 
But when he went to get it, it had disappeared, and in its place was a neat 
white box that was altogether too big to go clear into the pocket. Across 
it and across the shining surface of a little tin pail that hung on the next 
nail was written on a slip of paper in a boyish hand : "For Mr. Peterson's 
lunch." The janitor got very red in the face, and had a queer lump in 
his throat as he took down the pail of fragrant coffee and tasted the deli- 
cious sandwiches and fresh doughnuts and pie. It seemed almost too 
good to be true, when the same delightful miracle happened every noon 
for weeks. During those weeks, Mr. Peterson quite lost his appetite for 
the things they sold in Dannehy's saloon around the corner. 

Then came a whole long week when Mrs. Russell was away from 
home to take care of a sick sister, and Don and Dorothy quite forgot 
about the lunch. It happened about that time, too, although Dot and 
Don couldn't know it, that Mr. Peterson's baby was sick with croup, and 
Mr. Peterson was so tired when he came down on Friday morning that 



268 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

he could hardly hold up his head to attend to his work. It was harder 
than ever after having had Mrs. Russell's well-cooked lunches, to take 
out the newspaper parcel and munch its dry contents. It had been weeks 
now, he reasoned, since he had taken a drink of beer; he would just run 
over to Dannehy's back door and get a taste ; it would brace him up for 
the afternoon and night. Alas for Mr. Peterson, just as he was sneaking 
out of the saloon door back to the schoolhouse, he met Professor White. 
"It's all over with me now," thought the janitor. "What a fool I am." 
But somebody else had seen Mr. Peterson. 

"Oh, Donald," exclaimed Dorothy, "we forgot it — the coffee and 
lunch, and he went for his beer and Professor White — " 

"We just ought to be ashamed of ourselves," said Don. "I heard 
somebody say this morning that the Peterson baby was awful sick, and 
maybe that's why. Well, we couldn't be always taking care of Mr. 
Peterson anyway !" and Don tossed his head impatiently. 

"But it's too bad we forgot just when the baby was sick," said 
Dorothy with a tremble in her voice. "Donald Russell, I'm going 
straight up to the Principal's room and tell him all about it, and tell him 
we — you and I — will be re-spon-si-ble." Dot stumbled over the big 
word. "Isn't that the right word, Don, that we'll be re-sponsible for 
Mr. Peterson, if he'll let him try again?" 

Don stared at his sister. "You, Dorothy Russell, you go up to the 
Principal's room ! You know you'll be scared to death to go near there." 

"I know it," said Dot in a very shaky voice, "but Mother says it's 
brave to do things you're afraid to do if it's right. I may cry, I'm not 
sure ; but anyway I'm going." Dorothy hurried off. Donald hesitated a 
minute, then he called, "Stop, Dorothy Russell. You needn't think I'm 
going to let you go all alone." 

The Principal was looking out of the window, trying to make up his 
mind to go down and have a talk with the janitor, when there came a 
timid knock at the door. 

"We know all about it," began Dorothy, plunging into the middle 
of her story. 

"Know all about what?" asked the Principal. 

"About your having to tell Mr. Peterson to go if he went after the 
beer, and we've just come to tell you that we — Don and I — are partly 
to blame, and that we'll be re-sponsible for Mr. Peterson's acting right, 
if you'll let him off." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 269 

"He don't understand/' interrupted Don, man-fashion. "Let me 
tell him, Dot. You see Mr. Peterson's wife and the baby are sick and 
he don't have nice lunches." Then Don explained about the way these 
had been supplied, until the unhappy day they both forgot to do it. 

"You'll please let him off this once, if we promise to be re-sponsible 
for him?" chimed in Dot. 

"Bless your hearts, children," answered the Principal, with a tender 
smile. "I certainly will give Mr. Peterson one more chance on the prom- 
ise of such good friends to be responsible for him, and after this there'll 
be at least three — for I shall join you — who will stand by him and help 
him fight his battle, and I'm sure he'll not disappoint us, when he knows 
how much we all care for him." 

The Principal was right, and the children of the Wilcox School still 
rejoice in having the best janitor in the city. — Julia F. Deane, in Union 
Signal. 

WHEN BILLY VISITED THE MAYOR 

"Peter Brown says there's sure a law agin it," said Mrs. O'Brien 
plaintively, as she scrubbed vigorously at her washing. 

"Sure, and Peter Brown he knows," answered Billy sympathetically 
from the stairway. "Why don't yer go and tell Mulligan that he ain't no 
right to sell your Tim the stuff?" 

Mrs. O'Brien wiped her eyes with a sudsy apron as she stopped to 
answer: "And haven't I just done that very thing, Billy, and didn't he 
grin and say, 'A law agin it, is there? Well, what of that? You ain't 
supposing I've got time to go down to the City Hall an hunt up laws 
agin my business? I've got enough to do to look after thirsty folks who 
comes for drinks." 

Billy gave his crutch an impatient thump upon the stair. How he 
longed to be a big, strong man who could show saloon-keepers that there 
was a law against making poor widows' sons into drunkards, but as he 
was only Billy, weak and lame and poor, what could he do? However, 
that very afternoon he had a long talk with his friend, Mike Donovan, 
the corner policeman, concerning the matter. "If the Mayor, he could 
know 'bout it," said Billy thoughtfully, "I suppose he'd just fix it up 
quick; now wouldn't he?" 

"The Mayor, he's an awful busy man, he is," answered big Mike 
doubtfully. 



270 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

That night Billy's dreams were of the Mayor, sitting on a lofty 
throne in the City Hall all day, poring over great volumes, and every 
now and then pausing to send his servants out after those who did not 
mind the laws written in the great book, for that was what innocent Billy 
supposed was the work of the great Mayor and his many servants, 
the police. 

"And of course it's writ there somewhere in the big book about sell- 
ing the stuff to boys," the lad thought sleepily, "but mebbe the Mayor — 
he ain't got to that part yet, or mebbe he just skipped it — " and then 
Mayor, law books and broken laws grew vague and shadowy, as Billy 
fell asleep. 

The City Hall clock was striking the hour of noon the next day, and 
the Mayor and his secretary were wearily making their way through a 
mass of correspondence, when Billy's crutch came thump — thump — 
thump down the corridor. Although a hungry horde of office-seekers 
hovered around the door, denied admittance, the timid entreaties of the 
lame boy secured him an audience with the great man of the city, and, 
somewhat frightened and trembling, Billy found himself standing in the 
Mayor's private office. To make things all the more confusing, there 
was no throne, as he had dreamed, and although rows of books lined 
the walls, there was no sign of the massive, velvet-bound, gold-clasped 
volume which Billy expected to see lying before the Mayor. It was a 
very ordinary, kindly-faced man who looked into Billy's face and asked 
his errand. 

"Say," said Billy, swallowing a lump in his throat, "I was 'fraid 
you'd jess skip it in the book, you know; the law about giving boys 
things to drink, or mebbe you ain't got there yet — but Mulligan down 
on our corner — he keeps the saloon — he says he ain't no time to come 
down here and find out what's the law, and so he jess keeps on givin' 
Mrs. O'Brien's Tim whisky and beer and things — that is, he gives it 
when he's got money, and he won't pay no attention to Mrs. O'Brien 
when she says ter him there's a law agin it. Tim — he's a right smart 
fellow — only fifteen — when he ain't a drinking, and Mrs. O'Brien — 
he's all she's got, and I thought mebbe you wouldn't mind when yer got 
to the place about selling to boys, if I jess let yer know that Mulligan 
he didn't know 'bout the law, and you'd send somebody down to tell 
him* so't he won't do it any more." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 271 

The Mayor had quite thrown off the air of weariness, and sat listen- 
ing with real interest. 

"So Mulligan hasn't time to learn the law, eh? Well, this is a case 
that needs attention. I rather think I've heard of this Mulligan before, 
in other cases where he didn't have time to learn the law of this city. 
Brandenburg," turning to his secretary, "make a careful note of that 
man's name and location, and the charge the boy makes. Take imme- 
diate steps — immediate, you understand — to look into the matter, and 
if the charge is true, and I have no doubt it is, that man's license is to 
be revoked." 

Then, turning to Billy, "And now, my boy, I'm glad to have met 
you," and the great man stretched out his prosperous hand to clasp 
Billy's thin, scrawny one. "I wish I had more loyal citizens who are 
interested in having the laws obeyed rather than in getting a job. I 
want you to keep your eyes open, my boy, and if you hear of any more 
saloon men who haven't time to learn that law about selling to boys 
under age, just let me know." 

The excitement in the old tenement was great when it was learned 
that Billy had actually visited the Mayor in person; nor was it lessened 
when it was later discovered that Mulligan's license had been revoked. 
No one was more deeply impressed than Mrs. O'Brien's Tim. 

"It's the Mayor hisself, Tim," Billy solemnly told him, "as would 
shut up every drink house in the ward to keep you the fine boy ye was 
before ye got ter going to Mulligan's. And say, Tim, if I'd a mother 
like your^n and a Mayor who wanted to make a man of me, I'd give it 
a try myseif along with 'em, that's what I would." 

And Tim, hanging his head, answered humbly, "Say, Billy, I ain't 
worth all the fuss ; but if you think I am, say, I'll just do it, I will ; I'll 
give it a try too." — Julia F. Deane, in Union Signal. 

HOW JIMMY KEPT CHRISTMAS. 

"A merry Christmas to you, Jim," said Mr. Thomas Dalyrymple care- 
lessly, as he counted out the change for his papers. 

"Thanks," said the newsboy, and his grimy fingers closed over the 
money. "Wisht yer sayin' would make it so." 

"Well, I suppose it can't be any too merry for a boy who has to 
sell papers for a living," answered the young man. "I say, Ned," turning 



272 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

to his companion who was sitting with his feet perched high up on the 
radiator, while he puffed at a cigar, "Let's invite Jim to our little sup- 
per tonight — to fill Charley's place." He lowered his voice, and turned 
his head away from Jim, as he added : "It will be great sport to see how 
the boy will act in such a place. He's an original chap." 

Ned nodded a "y es >" with a sly wink of understanding. 

Many a worried shopper and tired business man paused that day to 
look a second time into the happy face of a certain newsboy on the city's 
crowded corner, and to note the almost exultant ring in the lusty voice 
as he cried : 

"Here's yer 'Mericun, 'Erald and Chronicul ! Here's yer papur!" 

What did it matter if the frosty wind nipped the poorly protected 
.toes and fingers, or if customers forgot to buy, and careless crowds jos- 
tled the hungry, tired boy. Jim was going to have a merry Christmas. 
He closed out his papers a little earlier than usual and hurried home to 
tell his mother. 

"I wisht yer and little Bud had been invited, too," he said, "but 
mebbe there'll be oranges and things to bring yer. Lame Dick says 
there mostly is at such doin's." 

Never had there been such frantic attempts at making an elaborate 
toilet ; such scrubbing of face and grimy hands, such brushing and hur- 
ried darning of ragged coat and trousers, such painful efforts with 
the comb. 

Jimmy's usually level head whirled with delight and amazement, as 
he was ushered into what seemed to him a fairyland. Half a dozen 
jovial voices made him welcome, and he was hurried to the one vacant 
chair at a table which glittered with cut glass, silver and china. 

"What'll you have, sonny?" asked Tom Dalyrymple, pushing a glass 
of something sparkling toward him. "Here's all kinds of things to make 
a merry Christmas." 

Jim drew a ragged coat-sleeve across his dazzled eyes, and straight- 
ened his shoulders, as if to cast off the spell of magic which the warmth 
and light and fragrance had thrown about him. 

"What is it?" he asked, pointing at the beaded liquor in the offered 
glass. 

"Something to warm your heart and make you forget you're a 
newsboy — make you think you're a howling swell, with money in your 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 273 

pocket." It was Tom Dalyrymple's voice, grown somewhat thick from 
too much wine. 

The boy of the street corner, forced by his hard life to read men at a 
glance, looked keenly round the table from the empty glasses to the 
reckless faces. Every face bore the mark of the evening's feasting in its 
loss of manhood. The boy's lips curled with scorn and disgust. 

"Say! is dis what yer call Chrismus?" he demanded, "If 'tis, then 
here's one feller's done with it all right. No Chrismus fer me. No 
sirree. Can't afford to be knocked out of my job by that stuff," he con- 
tinued in no uncertain tone, pointing straight at the ruby wine upon 
the table. 

"O, I say, Jim, what's that you're giving us ?" It was Tom Dalyrym- 
ple's irritable voice, angered that the sport of the evening should be thus 
spoiled. "Just taste a bit. It's only wine; it won't hurt you. 'Twill 
warm you up." 

"Not on yer life." The boy's face was almost stern. "I know that 
stuff, I do. I tried it onct. Mebbe you fellers ain't got anybody ter be 
lookin' out fer, so it don't count if you lose yer jobs. It's different with 
this feller. I've got a mammy and a little kid what's growin' up that 
has to have grub and togs to wear. And say, don't yer forget it, there's 
a dozen guys a stayin' wake nights to get that corner of mine to sell 
their papers. Think I'm going to lay myself out with that stuff? No, 
sirree; no Chrismus for this kid, if that's the game." 

Six manly faces had grown strangely ashamed and quiet, as Jim thus 
frankly stated his position, at the same time leaving the table and push- 
ing back his chair determinedly, although his hungry eyes looked greed- 
ily at the good things which stood within his reach. 

"Say, boys," the voice of Ned Burton, who had partaken less freely 
of the wine than the others, broke the silence. "It is a heathenish way 
to spend Christmas. I've a beastly headache already, and we all know 
where we'll be tomorrow morning if we keep it up. Fill up, Jim, with 
everything you like the looks of on^he table, and stuff your pockets, too. 
Then we'll go out together and seek another kind of Christmas. It isn't 
fair to let you think this is a sample of Christmas." 

"Just wait for me, too," said another voice. "The stores are open 
yet, and I'll go along and help load up with something for the 'kid 



274 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

what's growin' up.' I haven't quite forgotten the Christmas I had when 
I was a boy." 

*** *** *f* *t* *l* 

"Say, there wuz about ten minutes I thought for sure Chrismus was 
no 'count," Jim confided to his mother the next morning, as they sat 
serenely happy before a comfortable fire, fed by Christmas fuel, delight- 
ing in the joy of little Bud as he opened package after package of Christ- 
mas joy. "But, say," Jim continued, "one of them fellers, he said a queer 
thing. He said it kind of 'shamed like; 'Ji m > yer a sort of Santy Claus 
yerself, fer you've brought two of us fellers the right sort of Chrismus, 
and what's more, there'll be two mothers in two homes that'll have a 
merrier Chrismus than they've had for many a year. You're all right, 
Jim.' Then he squeezed my hand tight like, and wished a merry Chris- 
mus, and was gone. Say, wasn't that queer now?" 

But Jim's mother only wiped a tear away with the corner of a 
ragged apron, and softly answered, "Thank the Lord." — Julia F. Deane, 
in Union Signal. 

WHEN THE BARRACKS WENT DRY. 

Only childhood, sanguine and idealistic, would have imagined such 
an undertaking possible ; but to Johnny Swavoke and Tim Sherry, boys 
of ten or eleven years, it appeared highly feasible and patriotic. They 
had been attending a picnic for the children of the neighborhood, given 
by the workers of the Settlement House ; a great occasion, with a brass 
band and games and plenty to eat, including ice cream. Yet the thing 
that had most impressed these small boys, walking home together from 
the steamboat landing, was the address of the afternoon on "The Fourth 
of July and What It Stands For." 

Since it was the last of June, the speaker had thought it a good 
opportunity to impress these small waifs, most of them foreign born or 
of foreign parentage, with the meaning and value of our American 
institutions. He had appealed to the hero worship inherent in every 
son of Adam by illustrations drawn from the lives of George Washing- 
ton, Abraham Lincoln, and other great men of the nation; and at least 
two of his hearers were burning with a desire to emulate these giants of 
the past by some heroic act. 

"We hasn't no fair chance, nohow," observed Tim sadly and sagely, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 275 

as they sauntered along. "What wid not havin' no chice o' daddys, but 
jest havin' to take what comes — an' he an old sot — what's a kid to do? 
It'd be jolly fine doin' somethin' wuth while for future gen'rations to — 
to — sorter stare at (yer know how the gen'lman put it), but whin yer 
has hardly enough to eat, an' yer mammy's off washin' an' yer dad's 
drunk, yer up against it!" 

Johnny's thin little face looked sympathetic, but not for long. It 
was soon overspread with a rapturous smile. "My country 'tis ob Dee," 
he said. "Me hero? Yah!" 

"That's all right for talk," broke in Tim, "but how's a feller to serve 
his country an' he no sodger or big enough to be the president? That's 
what I want 'r know." 

I try." Johnny's little brown fingers spread out airily. "Meester 
Hay, he say (Mr. Hayes was a teacher at the Settlement) drink curse de 
country — de country mus' be sabe from drink. I fight de drink. I sabe 
my fader." 

"How?" 

Johnny halted in the road and lowered his voice as if telling solemn 
news. "De saloon, dey close de Fourth of July. No drink all de day, 
Meester Hay say so." 

"Well, what of that? The men'll be full jest the same. They'll stay 
half the night drinkin' an' bring a bottle home wid 'em." 

"Yah!" Johnny nodded his head. "I take the bottle — I drop heem 
een de riber. See! One man no deesgrace 'My country 'tis ob Dee/ 
de Fourth of July." 

"That's your plan, is it?" 

"I, my fader — ...you, your fader — Joe Miller, his fader," Johnny's 
hands waved hither and thither as he made these explanations. 

"That's oney three of us !" 

"Tree an' tree make seex. More boys, more faders. See?" 

"But it's oney for one day, Johnny," sighed Tim. "It won't keep." 

"My fader sober, I speak mit heem. I tell heem great men do not 
drink, gude men do not drink, men who want money do not drink. I 
reason mit heem." 

Tim sighed again. "Dad's an awful hard hitter," he said. 

"He wheep?" inquired the boy's companion sympathetically. 

"Wallop the hide off me! Oh, I'll be up agin it for fair if I 
join you." 



276 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

The little Pole eyed his comrade wistfully. The blood of his father, 
whose patriotism had earned him exile, was asserting itself in his veins. 
"De hero meet de hard ting an' it seem no hard to heem. Eet ees easy 
— eet ees for 'My country 'tis oh Dee'." Johnny's eyes and palms turned 
skyward. 

Tim felt impressed. "A feller wouldn't mind if it wur for his 
country," he said. "I'm game, Johnny. I'm wid you," extending his 
hand. 

"You tell Joe? Hey?" 

"Yes." 

"An' I tell Herman. We take all de bottle we fin' from all de men, 
no matter who heem fader?" 

"Oh, that's the game ! Well, I'm in for the whole thing. I'll get all 
the bottles I can swipe." And the two conspirators parted. 

Having interested his two friends, the small instigator of the plot 
was content. He was too cautious to tell many. But not so Tim Sherry. 
Having enlisted in the difficult role of playing hero, he was ready to 
take risks, and determined before his meagre supper was finished, that 
the "Barracks" should go strictly "dry" on the coming Fourth of July. 
"Barracks" was the name given to the miserable three-story box on the 
banks of the river where Tim Sherry lived. It was tucked in between 
several large warehouses and was seldom visited by either sunshine or 
fresh air, yet it furnished quarters for eight families, the men in every 
case being employees at these warehouses and most of them addicted to 
strong drink. Johnny Swavoke did not live there, his family being part 
of a colony of foreigners in another neighborhood. 

Tim went out that very night to make recruits, and before bedtime 
his chum, Joe Miller, and six others had been sworn in. It is extremely 
doubtful if the moral quality — or even the patriotic — figured chiefly 
in the enlistment of these later recruits, though all were alive to the 
"lark" it involved and the "rumpus" which was likely to follow. 

"Yer'd better back out while there's time, if yer scarey," Tim 
advised. But no one retreated. 

"Lift yer right han', thin, if yer means it, an' swear that yer'll do 
yer bist to see the Barracks dry the Fourth of July." 

Every hand went up. 

"All right thin ; mum's the word till the night afore the Fourth, an' 
thin it's hustle. The feller that blabs has me to settle wid." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 277 

Though Johnny made no attempt to add to his followers, he did 
make a confidante. This was no other than Miss Bessie Brewster, the 
youngest and fairest of the Settlement workers, whose blue eyes and 
golden hair had long before enslaved the little Polish lad. 

"Eet ees a secret," he began. 

"All right," she laughed. These little chaps were such funny fel- 
lows ! But she opened her eyes very wide as his story progressed, and 
wondered if Mr. Hayes ought not to be informed of these doings. "I'm 
afraid you little fellows will get hurt," she said. "Won't your father 
whip you?" 

"He gude man when he no drink," explained Johnny. "He kind. 
He bring me one leetle flag, all stars an' stripe one day. 'Eet ees your 
flag,' he say to me. 'Eet shall be mine.' He fight for hees flag till dey 
send heem away. He come to dis country. But de drink, Mees, de 
drink! He forget all in de drink. My mudder cry — her heart break! 
I mus' stop heem drink!" 

"I see," said the little lady sympathetically, "but, but — suppose 
we go to Mr. Hayes and find out if this is the best way to help him. 
There may be some other way to save your father." 

"There ees none," answered the child with conviction. "Eet ees a 
secret, we mus' do eet." 

"But I think I ought to tell Mr. Hayes." 

"You will not, Mees." Johnny's face was eloquent with his unshaken 
trust in "Mees." 

"No, I suppose I will not, you small hero," the girl replied, lips 
smiling, but eyes troubled, as she noted the boy's sudden access of 
dignity. Had not "Mees" called him hero! 

Quite early on the morning of the Fourth, "Mees" was summoned 
again to receive Johnny. He wanted her to accompany him to Mr. 
Hayes' office and help explain his errand to that gentleman. 

"My fader wake," said the boy at the end of his confession. "He 
ees angry. I talk mit heem of drink. I tell heem gude men do not 
drink. You will come an' talk mit heem? He will leesten to you, 
he will write heem's name on de leetle pledge. It ees a gude name. Eet 
will not blush for heem." 

Puzzled as the gentleman was, over the strange action of the boys, 
uncertain as he felt of any good outcome to the affair, he yet promised 
to visit Mr. Swavoke and talk with him about his habit. 



278 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"And why can't we have a patriotic temperance service here to- 
night?" asked Miss Brewster at this juncture. "We can have the 
orchestra, and Mr. Jenkins will sing for us. You can make a little 
temperance speech and I'll offer them the Abraham Lincoln pledge. I'll 
see, too, that there is lemonade and ice cream and cake. We must do* 
all we can to help these boy-heroes." 

All the commotion stirred up in the "Barracks" on that Fourth of 
July morning, and what happened to the young conspirators, can better 
be imagined than told, but the "Barracks" was "bang-up dry," as Tim 
whispered exultantly to Joe Miller before he went in to "take his 
med'cine." He found his father storming around as he vainly looked 
for his bottle. 

"If you've ben meddlin' wid it, or let the childer meddle wid it, 
it's all up wid you, Nan," he was saying to his wife as he clutched her 
arm. 

"Let her be," cried his son. "I took yer bottle." 

"You !" The man caught the boy roughly and shook him. "Git it, 
an' be quick about it, too," he thundered as he flung the lad from him. 

"I can't git it. I throwed it in the river." Tim caught his breath 
over the confession. With a single blow the man felled the child and 
strode toward the door. "I'll tache ye to thry yer tricks on me !" he 
yelled. 

"It's -no use lookin' for it, daddy. I spilled it an' broke the bottle." 

The boy's daring amazed his father. "Yer spilled it an' broke me 
bottle?" he vociferated. "I'll break every bone in yer body." 

The brute seemed likely to keep his word, when a diversion came in 
the shape of a neighbor wishing to borrow a little whisky. It was the 
old captain. 

"I haven't a drop for mesilf," answered Mr. Sherry. "That villain 
of a Tim of mine has emptied me bottle in the river." 

"It's a queer thing," said the visitor, "but every man in the house 
is without a drink. I brought home a full bottle myself last night, and 
so did most of our neighbors, but it has all disappeared over night. 
Perhaps your son can account for it." 

"No!" cried Mike Sherry with an oath; "not the whole of it gone?" 

"Every sup," was the irritated reply, and the first gleam of satis- 
faction that had reached the Irishman since he discovered his own loss 
came with the evident discomfort of this old ex-soldier and ex-gentleman 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 279 

who received small favors from the proprietor of the shops and rather 
looked down on his fellow workmen. 

"The Barracks's gone dry," piped Tim in the midst of his father's 
exultation, groaning as he tried to draw himself to his feet. 

"Dry, you rascal !" roared his father, and then began to laugh at the 
look on the old soldier's face. "Out with it, Tim. Did ye stale all the 
likker in the house?" 

"Me an' me frinds did," declared Tim triumphantly. "We'se afther 
kapin' the citizens of this Republic sober on the Fourth." 

"Did ye aver hear the loikes of that?" Mike demanded, his dudgeon 
lost in admiration of his son. But the neighbor to whom he spoke had 
disappeared. "What for did ye do it, Tim, an' who put yer up to it? 
Some of them prohibitioners, I misdoubt?" 

"Nobuddy didn't put me up to it but jest Johnny Swavoke and 
mesilf," declared Tim stoutly. 

"An' what for did ye go an' do it?" still questioned the astonished 
man. 

"I — I thought," wailed his offspring, rubbing his eyes vigorously, 
"that if — if I couldn't have the pick of the gents for me daddy — George 
Washington or Abe Linkum, ye know — I'd like to have wan that's a 
dacent patriot, and a respictable member of this glorrious Republic." 

Mr. Sherry, being sober and swiftly losing his anger, winked at his 
wife, something that had not happened before for years. "Hear the 
brat!" he said with a grin. "Where'd he pick up the loikes of that?" 

"The gin'lmen at the Settl'ment picnic said it," volunteered Tim, his 
fist still in his eyes. "He sed as how we'd all like to be hearoes, but if 
we couldn't be thim we could be men worthy of t,him an' of our country. 
I thought I'd like me daddy to be wan or the ither." 

"An' that's why ye stole me bottle?" Mike seemed amazed. 

"Yis." 

"I'm sorry I whaled ye," said Mike, visibly moved. " 'Twur a noble 
ambition, it wur, an' worthy of ye. I'll not tech likker the day." 

Tim's hands fell from his eyes. "Not if nobuddy trates ye?" he cried. 

"Not if the prisidint of the United States trates me," responded 
Mike. 

"Thin I'm proud of yer a'ready," burst forth the boy, crying afresh. 

"What for are ye blubberin', whin yer dad says he'll not drink?" 
inquired the child's mother. 



280 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

" 'Cause I'm too proud not to," answered the boy, "an' if he oney 
wouldn't never drink agin I'd be happy foriver an' iver an' mos' as 
proud 'sif he wur Abe Linkum hissef." 

Mr. Sherry looked at the poor, little writhing creature, cringing 
before him in spite of gallant words, and his heart smote him. A new 
something stirred within him — that something that must be divine, 
since it has wrought so many miracles in wretched lives. "Yer a man, 
Tim," he said huskily, "an' that's more than I am mesilf. Ye desarve a 
betther daddy an' ye shall have him afther this. Don't be afeard," as 
the boy shrank from his touch, "I won't hit ye never agin, I won't. It 
seems," he added, a touch of humor saving him from the tears that 
threatened him, "It seems me time to be a hero has come, an' ye've 
brought it. Havin' never had the chance afore, I've no mind to lose 
it. I give ye my hand on it, Tim, I'll never touch the stuff agin all me 
life, so help me." 

Tim ignored the hand his father extended as he flung both arms 
about his neck with a whoop. "I tell ye what, daddy, I wouldn't swap 
yer for the best of 'em ! Ye'r a gen'lmen !" 

It was late afternoon when Johnny Swavoke turned the corner to 
the river and sent out a shrill whistle in front of the "Barracks." Tim 
answered it. "My daddy's stopped the drink foriver," he yelled at sight 
of Johnny's face. "Hurrah for the Fourth of July !" 

"Hurrah !" joined in the small Pole. "Meester Hay he see my fader 
an' he sign heem name to de pledge. He gude name — he keep eet. 
There ees a talk at de Settl'ment to-night. I am to tell all to come. There 
ees museek, an' talk, an' de Abr'am Linkum pledge; lemonade, an' ice 
cream, an' cake, Mees Brewster say so. Say," leaning nearer and whis- 
pering, "she call me hero! — Deed your father wallop hard, Teem?" 

"You bet he did, but he was sorry, an' it didn't hurt much after he 
promised not to drink any more. He says I am a hearo, an' so does 
the captain's wife. I tell you, Johnny, this is the day of my life ! What 
you may call livin' ! I never knew afore what the joys of the patriot wur, 
but I've struck 'em, an' it's worth a wallopin'! I'd take it agin, and' 
twict as hard, at the same price." — Mrs. S. R. Graham Clarke in Union 
Signal. 

A FATEFUL NEW YEAR. 

Four beautiful girls were chatting eagerly over their dessert in 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 281 

Judge Carroll's elegant dining room. "Surely, Edith, you would not 
serve wine, real wine \" exclaimed one of them, a lovely blonde, whose 
color, like the delicate tinting of a shell, came and went in her fair face 
with every shade of feeling. 

"Don't be fussy, Grace," quickly replied another, a perfect contrast 
in looks and manner, and evidently Grace's sister, from the freedom with 
which she chided her whenever their opinions differed. "For my part, 
I should like to see a real New Year's reception, wine and all, such as 
we do not have the opportunity to see in our little village." 

"Of course, Betty, and that is why we planned to receive this year. 
The custom is going out so that we had concluded to omit it, until we 
knew that you were coming." This from a graceful girl of twenty, 
Judge Carroll's special pet, Winnie, whose brown eyes were full of fun 
and frolic. "It would be a shame to deprive the young men of the 
privilege of meeting our lovely guests, wouldn't it, mamma?" 

"Quite shameful," agreed Mrs. Carroll languidly, "but don't branch 
out too heavily in the matter of wines. Public opinion is changing so, 
and really, the affair gets vulgar toward the end, don't you think so?" 

Pretty Edith shrugged her shoulders expressively. "You are think- 
ing of Tom Carlton's behavior last year. Yes, decidedly vulgar, I must 
say, but he will not come this year, I am sure of that. Win and I have 
cut him dead since then." And a vindictive little spark in her eye 
indicated a sincere pleasure in the operation. 

The details of the menu were eagerly entered into, and Grace listened 
with an interest which was only abated when the wines were mentioned ; 
but, as a guest, she made no further protest. 

The two guests were daughters of a widowed sister of Mrs. Carroll's. 
Elizabeth, commonly called Betty, was the more willful, decided character 
of the two, but Grace, though she said little, had a quiet force of 
character which was little suspected from her less demonstrative 
exterior. To-day in her secret heart there was a firm determination not 
to touch the wine herself or to offer it to any young man at the coming 
function. 

The temperance teaching of the schools had sunk deep into her 
heart, and, too, she had seen the evil effects of wine drinking in the lives 
of others about her, and she hated it. Betty, however, was willfully 
blind, and of a nature to be so intoxicated with society that she would 
bow to any of its behests, a willing slave, while Winnie and Edith would 



282 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

tolerate any whim or excess of fashion so long as it did not merge into 
the vulgar, the one fatal word in their vocabulary. Drunken men were 
vulgar, but polite drinking quite the thing — and their temperance educa- 
tion had gone no farther. 

Mrs. Carroll's Christmas gift to her nieces had been two beautiful 
party dresses, and on New Year's day the quartet presented a vision of 
beauty as they received their guests. The rooms were abloom with 
flowers, and cut glass and silver sparkled on the tables, whereon were 
spread most inviting refreshments. 

The guests began to arrive, and the scene was one of brilliant hos- 
pitality for the rest of the afternoon, and conversation for the most 
part purely conventional. There were exceptions, however, and several 
young men lingered beyond the bounds of a formal call. Among these 
was a young physician, whose dark eyes rested on Grace with an 
admiration which he took no pains to conceal, as they went out to the 
refreshment room together. 

She had met him before, since coming to the city, and had formed 
a most favorable opinion of him, which was heightened by observing 
that he took no wine. One of his companions (he had come in with a 
party of young men) was not so abstemious, however, and drank several 
glasses of champagne with a relish which revealed much. 

"I see you do not join in the convivial features of the day," said 
Dr. Watson, as Grace nibbled at a slice of cake and turned down her 
glass. The two were sitting in a retired corner of the dining room. 

"No, I could not and retain my self-respect," replied Grace, lifting 
her eyes to his. 

"Yet it is quite the style among ladies, and it makes it doubly hard 
for us poor mortal men to refuse such charming hospitality," he replied. 

"I should never forgive myself if I offered it to you or to any other 
young man who afterward came to harm." 

"Then you consider yourself your brother's keeper?" 

"Yes, if you choose to call it that. I certainly could not place a 
stumbling block in his way and hold myself innocent if he fell." 

"I wish that more young women felt as you do," he replied earnestly, 
as he glanced at another group where wine was being served lavishly. 
Betty, with shining eyes, was the center, and her gay laugh jarred on her 
sister's ear, for one of the party was evidently refusing the glass which 
she was urging upon him. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 283 

"A sad experience opened my eyes to the evils of even the most 
moderate drinking," continued Dr. Watson, a look of pain coming over 
his expressive face, "and I have been a total abstainer since. I should 
not have been making New Year's calls to-day but for the hope of 
keeping Tom Grey from excess, but what can I do when lovely girls urge 
the wine upon him? To tell the truth, this is the first home we have 
entered where the wine has been so lavishly, so beautifully and tempt- 
ingly served." 

"They do not think, Dr. Watson — they have never seen the dark 
side of the question. Do not blame them too much," Grace said earnestlv, 
then flushed deeply, remembering that she was speaking of her own 
sister and her cousin 

Dr. Watson was so evidently uneasy for his friend, that Grace was 
relieved to see him go, but before he went he had invited her to drive 
with him the following day, and her gentle heart was filled with hap- 
piness 

Never had Grace seen her beautiful sister so bright, so sparkling with 
wit as on this day, and she began to suspect that the frequent sips of the 
fragrant wine was the cause of Betty's unusual brilliancy. Her cheek 
flushed with shame at the thought. In their own quiet home life, wine as 
a beverage was unknown, but Betty seemed as much intoxicated with 
the spirit of the day as with the wine, and drank in the compliments, 
the perfume, the music and excitement with greedy avidity. 

Grace was glad when it was all over and the guests were gone, 
leaving them to talk over the events of the day in the early evening. 

"Oh, you sly puss," cried Edith, "when we have been angling in the 
deep waters of Dr. Watson's heart for the last year, to come here and 
land our fish with a pin hook and at the first throw." 

Grace blushed deeply, then a spark of retaliation crept into eyes. "I 
think I see a diamond on Winnie's hand that was not there when the 
gentlemen came in," she replied demurely, and it was Winnie's turn to 
blush. 

"Charlie Markham evidently means to begin the new year right," 
said Edith laughingly. "I noticed that he refused even one glass of wine, 
and it is more than likely that he has his list of resolutions pinned up 
over his bed like a good little boy." 

"Well, I hope he will keep them," retorted Winnie, in response to 
the laugh at her lover's expense. "It is certainly no disgrace to refrain 



284 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

from those things, while it may easily become one to yield to them. A 
girl surely feels more secure with a man who does not drink." 

It was Winnie's first leaning toward temperance principles, and 
Edith and Betty applauded loudly. "Hear! Hear!" cried Betty. "Now 
we are equally divided. Winnie and Grace on the 'dry' side, while Edith 
and I represent personal liberty, and we shall see which comes out ahead 
in the race for happiness." 

They were still talking merrily when Judge Carroll came in, and 
they could see at the first glance that he was laboring under strong 
excitement. He glanced at the still gleaming tables and other evidences 
of festivity, then beckoned his wife into the next room. 

"Tell me, is Winnie greatly interested in young Markham?" he asked 
earnestly. 

"She wears his ring and does not deny her engagement. Quite 
likely he will call upon you to-morrow." 

"No, he won't, poor fellow. How can we tell her, Martha? There 
has been a terrible accident, and Tom Grey was instantly killed. Young 
Markham is just alive, and all more or less hurt. It was Grey's auto 
they were in and he insisted on driving, and they collided with a street 
car." 

"Oh! Why, that was Dr. Watson's party!" Mrs. Carroll's eyes 
were full of horror, and a vision arose before her: Tom Grey in her 
house, taking from Edith's and Betty's fair hands the wine which had 
clouded his brain and carried him to his death. 

"What is it, father? What is wrong?" Winnie's white face appeared 
in the doorway, heavy with an instinctive foreboding, for she had caught 
her mother's cry of horrified surprise. 

"Winnie, my poor child " Then her father's arms were around 

her while he broke the sad tidings as gently as he could. For a few 
minutes all was confusion, for Winnie had fainted and the other girls 
were so shocked and helpless that they were of no use whatever. 

"To think that I poured that last glass for Tom Grey myself," sobbed 
Edith. "His poor mother, and Janet ! He was their idol." 

Betty had no word of comfort to offer, feeling herself equally guilty. 
The two girls were alone in the room they occupied together, and Win- 
nie's heartbroken sobbing could be heard just across the hall. 

Winnie herself had not known how deeply she was attached to the 
bright, winsome young man to whom she had given her hand, but his 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 285 

danger revealed it to her, and she had gone from one faint to another at 
the first shock. It was a terrible ending of the day of merriment and 
gaiety, and Winnie was not alone in her grief. Grace learned, too, how 
much she had become interested in Dr. Watson, and her heart swelled 
with thankfulness that whatever his injuries, they were not caused by 
any fault or folly of his own, yet she was consumed with anxious fears, 
for Judge Carroll had not learned how badly he was hurt. 

All night she ministered to Winnie's needs with patient, loving care, 
and the two girls became better acquainted through sorrow than they 
would have done in months of ordinary living. A cheering message came 
from the hospital in the morning. "Mr. Markham is alive and con- 
scious. We hope for the best." But at the best, there was suffering 
and danger for him and keen anxiety for Winnie, and the gay butterfly of 
fashion and pleasure was transformed to a sad-hearted girl with the 
heart of a woman in her young breast. 

It was a welcome relief when Dr. Watson called during the day. 
His arm was in a sling and an ugly bruise marred his forehead, but 
otherwise he was unharmed. His face was full of deep sadness as h^ 
talked of his friends. "There is a terrible house at the Grey's," he said. 
"Mrs. Grey is in such agonies of self-reproach that her reason is in 
danger. She has always served wine at her table and in her cooking 
until very recently, and she blames herself entirely for Tom's habits. 
Janet and his father are prostrated with grief." 

"Such a mercy you were not all killed," shuddered Mrs. Carroll. 

"Yes, we should not have allowed Tom to run the machine for a 
moment in the condition he was in, but it was his own, and how could 
we prevent it without a scene?" 

"And a most unpleasant one," assented Mrs. Carroll. 

"It is a lesson — a costly lesson," and Dr. Watson looked over at 
Grace, 'but I think none of us will ever forget it." 

The days passed by, the round of pleasure which had been planned 
quite forgotten in the anxious suspense which Winnie was suffering. 

Charlie Markham crept up from death's door, a white shadow of his 
former rugged, rollicking self, but Winnie was too glad to make com- 
plaint. Dr. Watson accompanied the girls to their home, and Mrs. Cul- 
ver was glad to welcome him as a son. The outcome of the fateful New 
Year's day has been that there are two new homes established on strictly 



286 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

temperance principles, and from the others the wine glass has been 
banished forever. — Mrs. F. M. Howard, in Union Signal. 

GRANNY HOBART'S EASTER. 

"Well, for my part," said Mrs. Wiggin, with emphasis, one hand on 
the door-knob, "I think it's right and proper to make all the fuss about 
Easter that's possible : flowers and birds and children speaking and sing- 
ing. There can't be too much of it for me. I think everybody should be 
glad at Easter." 

"If they kin," sighed Granny Hobart, from her chair by the win- 
dow. ''But it ain't everybuddy that kin." 

"I'm not believing that, Mrs. Hobart," was the crisp reply. "If 
people won't look at their mercies, why, they won't, and nobody but 
themselves to blame. The Lord has provided enough kindness to make 
us all glad, but He don't force us to be. Think what our state would 
be if Jesus had never risen from the dead. It just makes my heart sing 
when I think of Peter and John and how their sorrow was turned into 
joy by the wonderful miracle of the resurrection." 

"Yes," quavered Granny, a break in her thin treble, "I know it's 
wonnerful, but — but I'm kinder used to it. He's allers been risen 
sence I knowed ennythin' about Him. Seems 'sif I couldn't no how be 
satisfied with no Easter agin till God raises somebuddy else from the 
dead — somebuddy dead in trespasses an' sins," a sob shaking the old 
voice. 

Mary Hobart rose from the table at which she was sewing and 
swiftly reached Granny's side. One hand smoothed the thin white locks 
tenderly as she addressed their neighbor: 

"Mother loves the Lord, Mrs. Wiggin," she said, "and she's as glad 
as anybody that there's an Easter, but — but she's always thinking of 
Billy." 

"She's old," answered the visitor, "and I suppose the Lord takes 
that into consideration. But I do wonder she hasn't got reconciled to 
things in all these years." 

"I'll never be reconciled to the works o' the devil. Tell her to mind 
that, Mary," cried the old lady, bridling. "Theer's some things the Lord 
doesn't want us to be reconciled to — He isn't Himself. I'll never be 
satisfied till I see my poor lost boy raised from the dead." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 287 

Long after the departure of the neighbor, and after her mother had 
been soothed into apparent forgetfulness of her late emotion, Mary 
Hobart's faithful heart still vibrated to the pain newly stirred within 
her and her eyes filled again and again as she pondered the page of 
the past that had been so ruthlessly turned back that afternoon. A 
bright, boyish face looked up to her from that page. 

"Such a noble, lovable darling!" she whispered with fresh tears. 
"Annie's baby! He missed his mother. How could I take her place? 
Lord, forgive me if I was to blame for his downfall. I trusted John — 
perhaps he didn't think — or — know — I hate to blame him. But Billy 
never would have stolen John's money if he had not first learned to 
love John's cider." 

Granny folded her hands beside her plate, when a little later the 
supper table was drawn to her side, and closing her eyes, she said sim- 
ply: "Lord, it can't be hard for Thee to bring Thy lost ones home. 
I know you'll not forgit Billy." 

The choir met that evening in the village church to practice anthems 
for the next day. Jessie Farman was the contralto, John Barton the 
tenor. None were conscious of any listener other than their little circle, 
but hidden from sight in a corner pew, sat a young man. He was 
only a poor prodigal who had come to himself several months before in 
a distant city mission. A sweet-voiced woman — one who wore a 
white ribbon on her breast, such as his mother used to wear before 
she slipped away to the angels — urged him to confess his sins and start 
a new life. 

"What use to confess to God," he answered, "while unwilling to 
confess to man? I am not ready." 

"If you confess to God, He will help you to confess to man," she 
had declared ; but he had shaken his head doubtfully and had gone away, 
but not to rest. The conviction that had taken hold of him would not 
let go. He had reached this village only one short half-hour before 
intending to go immediately to the man he had wronged, but the fair 
face of a girl had diverted him from his purpose, had led him into this 
hiding place in the old church. 

"She's the right kind — the only kind I could love," he was saying 
to himself, despairingly, as he listened to her voice. "She'll make one of 
those God- women, like that one at the mission. Well, that dream's 



288 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

over, but I'll make a clean breast of it, pardon or prison," he determined 
with set teeth, "I've got to be able to endure myself." 

"He breaks the power of death; 
He sets the captive free," 

sang the contralto. 

"Friends," said the old minister, who had come in unexpectedly at 
the close of the rehearsal, "I want you to sing a hymn directly after the 
anthem to-morrow. I dropped in on purpose to propose it. It's an 
old hymn, but I can't get rid of the impression that some poor sinner 
hearing it may realize that there's a resurrection for him." 

The man in the corner pew felt the tears spring to his eyes as he 
listened to the tender strains that followed : 

"Though your sins be as scarlet, 
Though your sins be as scarlet, 
They shall be as white as snow." 

A thrill went through the singers themselves, as Jessie Farman's 
voice lifted the refrain. The tone was so pure, so tenderly exultant, 
so confident. She seemed pleading with some sinning soul, pressing him 
to believe her message. John Barton's voice trembled as he accompanied 
her. What friends she and Billy had always been. He suddenly recalled 
one afternoon long ago, when she had stopped him on the street to say, 
while indignant tears filled her brown eyes, "I'd be ashamed if I were 
a big man like you, Mr. Barton, to be teaching boys to drink." 

He had laughed at her at the time. Cider never hurt him, had not 
hurt his father. He had laughed, too, at Mary Hobart, when she 
pleaded with him about the matter. "Some of your white-ribbon non- 
sense. You women must be hard up for something to fight, when you 
tackle a little innocent cider." He was not so sure cider was innocent, 
in the light of after developments, but he was hardly willing to admit 
that fact. 

Meanwhile, the minister with covered eyes, stood praying, while he 
listened to the old hymn; surely, if Jessie sang like that to-morrow, 
some wayfaring soul must accept the message. True, loyal servant of 
Christ, prone as we all are, to put off to another day what God would 
give us now — close beside him a wanderer was even then accepting 
the message. 

John Barton went out into the darkness of the night, a strange 
tumult in his soul. Had he not always been hard on the man who 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 289 

sinned? Yet what was he himself but a sinner? If the Son of God, 
the Lord of life — whom death could not hold in bondage — could for- 
give sin — nay, sought diligently after straying ones that He might for- 
give them, what was he that he should condemn? 

Pondering, he came to Mrs. Hobart's cottage. He always passed it 
at night when going home from church. It took him a trifle out of his 
way, but it had become a habit. It had become a habit, too, in passing, 
to seek a glimpse of Mary Hobart's face. One of the curtains had not 
been drawn to-night. He could see into the sitting-room where Granny 
sat in her big chair, her Bible on her knees, while her daughter sewed 
at the table. Did John imagine it, or did Mary look sadder and thinner 
than usual? 

He hesitated, halted, then walked in. "Good evening, Granny," he 
said a moment later, entering the room where the women sat. 

"You, John !" cried Mary. He wondered if the joy-note were really 
in her voice or if his heart-hunger put it there. 

"Me. I've been over to the church practicing, and thought I'd step 
in a moment." 

"Practicing!" echoed Granny, pushing her spectacles excitedly to her 
white locks. "So you're goin' to sing about the risen Lord again to- 
morrer, John, with hatred in your heart for them He died to save? It's 
little comfort sich as you kin git out o' Easter. He rose from the dead 
an' entered into heaven, but He's comin' agin, an' this time to be the 
Jedge o' all livin'. It's written — I've jist been readin' it — 'If ye forgive 
not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your tres- 
passes.' " 

"But I do forgive, Granny," answered the man, with solemn earnest- 
ness, again following some inner impulse. "I forgive this night as I hope 
to be forgiven." 

"Billy?" asked the women in one breath. But John answered only 
one — the one whose gray eyes had lifted so quickly, so eagerly to his 
face. 

"Yes, Billy," he said, humbly. "God forgive me, Mary. I feel 
to-night that I sinned against the boy more than he ever sinned against 
me. I taught him first to drink, though I didn't intend it — never think 
that I did." 

"You're a good man, John," said Granny, holding on to the arms 
of her chair as she drew herself to her feet. "You're a good man and 



290 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

know the Lord, though I've doubted you at times. Mary, she never 
doubted you. I've been mistook in a lot of things. I 'most thought 
that the day of miracles was past, but it seems it aint, Lord," lifting 
her streaming eyes to heaven, "Lord, it can't be enny harder for you 
to work two miracles than one. I'm sore tired o' waitin' for Billy." 

As Mary read a Psalm before retiring that night — her mother 
already fast asleep — a step sounded under her window, some one tapped 
on the pane. She lifted the curtain and peered out, then, with one hand 
over her heart, — as if to still its beatings — she hurried to the street 
door. "Billy !" she cried under her breath, as she drew a youth into the 
hall and into her arms. 

It was late when Granny woke next morning. The church bells 
were ringing Billy had been talking to his aunt for an hour past, 
telling his recent experience. "I don't know how I happened to drift into 
the mission, God must have led me there. I found He was able to take 
the love of strong drink out of me and then I knew I must come back 
and face my crime, Auntie. I dreaded to meet Barton, but it's wonder- 
ful what God can do when we trust him. John was kindness itself. He 
treated me like a brother. I feel like a new man." 

"Mary," called Granny just then, "Mary, I've had a quare dream. 
I 'most hate to wake up. I thought Billy was dead and Jesus brought 
him back to life and gave him unto me." 

"It's a true dream, Granny," cried Billy, breaking away from his 
aunt's restraining hand. "Jesus has saved me and sent me back to you." 

With her old arms about her boy's neck, her dim eyes fixed on his 
face, Granny questioned : 

"What air the church bells ringm' for, Mary? Have the folks found 
out our Billy has come home?" 

"God has, mother," answered the daughter, gently. "It's Sunday, 
Easter Sunday." 

"Easter!" laughed Granny exultantly," an' I was afeared to see it! 
It's a true Easter, Mary, for 'This my son was dead and is alive again; 
he was lost and is found !' " — Mrs. S. R. Graham Clarke, in Union Signal. 

WHO PAYS IT? 

The town board had met to decide the question of license or no- 
license. They were about equally divided, one or two staunch temper- 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 291 

ance men, two in favor of the saloon — on financial grounds, of course — 
the others neutral or only waiting to know what their constituents 
wanted. And their constituents, very wisely, were there to tell them. 
The "business men," as they called themselves, had a delegation of their 
most respectable members and their smoothest speakers to represent 
them. The temperance people, less wise in their generation, showed a 
large delegation, too, but one less impressive to the average politician. 
Most of them were women, many elderly, many shabbily dressed. In- 
tensely in earnest, they were, but they had neither votes nor political 
influence. For the men, there were the pastors of two or three struggling 
churches, a few Sunday-school boys, not yet voters, two or three white- 
haired old fathers in Israel — altogether a delegation that deserved more 
honor than it was likely to get there. They presented their petition. 
Alas, half of the signatures were of non-voters, which discounted its 
value terribly. And the ministers, the only ones used to speaking in 
public, presented the arguments which seemed strongest to them ; they 
quoted Scripture, they painted the miseries of the drunkard's home, they 
appealed to the board's Christianity — and the board yawned and figeted. 
They had heard all that before, many times. 

Then the advocates of license began, cheery, brisk and confident. He 
quoted statutes to prove that the well-regulated saloon of our days 
could not produce the dire results dreaded by his well-meaning but 
rather old-fashioned opponents. Of course, no one wanted low doggeries. 
Just two or three thoroughly respectable places, whose owners would 
pride themselves on keeping everything quiet and unobjectionable. It 
was simply a matter of business. They had a beautiful town and fine 
business prospects, but everyone knew that the sidewalks were scan- 
dalously out of repair. And that shaky old bridge over the creek was 
really a menace to the lives and limbs of the community. Who knew 
how soon some terrible accident might cause untold sufferings, and 
incidentally make a big bill of damages for the town ? Main Street, too, 
needed paving sorely. The taxes were high enough already, he would 
admit, but just pass a high license, high enough to shut out those low 
cut-throats and dive-keepers, whom his good brethren so justly feared, 
permitting three or four high-class places, which would really be an 
ornament to the town, and the license money would put all straight. 
Then they could repair the sidewalks, build a handsome new bridge, and 
pave at least the worst part of Main Street, making their little town a 



292 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

safe, handsome, up-to-date burg, of which they might all be proud, he 
argued with rising eloquence. 

Who could be churlish enough to refuse these would-be public 
benefactors the eagerly-sought privilege of enriching the town with their 
munificent gifts? Not this board, evidently. That glib speech, that 
prospect of getting something for nothing, carried conviction. Even 
one or two opponents of the saloon murmured doubtfully that if the 
thing could easily be restrained to two or three respectable places, it 
might not be so bad. Their cause was lost. Anyone could see that. 
Was not half-a-loaf better than no bread? On the women's faces was 
written disappointment or blank despair. 

A good deacon tried to answer the argument, with the best inten- 
tions, but, alas, he was a poor speaker, and the board only grew restive 
under his long rambling sentences, sweeping denunciations and general 
incoherence. "Pious, feeble-minded cant," some mentally termed it. 
Half a dozen sentences from the advocates of high-license and improve- 
ments more than disposed of him. The case was as good as decided, 
when the clear-eyed little school mistress stepped quickly forward from 
where she had been holding a whispered consultation with several women 
who had most to lose by the re-establishment of the saloon. 

"One moment, please, your honor," she said briskly, though her color 
rose high. "As Mr. Gaylord puts it, this is a matter of business. These 
repairs which we need, cannot be paid without money, and our property- 
owners are not anxious to have their taxes raised. They might grumble 
if you did that, and they might grumble if the town incurred a heavy bill 
for damages through defective sidewalks. Mr. Gaylord urges license as 
a solution of this problem. As you see, many of the best people in town 
are opposed to having saloons, and I am sure you would not wantonly 
offend them. You would not hurt and disappoint all these good ladies 
except for gravest financial reasons ?" She paused inquiringly. 

"Why, certainly not," one hastened to protest; "but you see how it 
is, Miss Pierce. These streets must be looked to." 

The others nodded quick assent. They had no personal feeling in 
the matter ; they were exceedingly sorry to disappoint the wishes of so 
many of the best people, but business was business. These repairs must 
be made, and the community was already overtaxed. The little school 
mistress listened, smiling and nodding assent, even suggesting excuses 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 293 



when the men faltered, till all had spoken, while the temperance people 
listened in dull despair. 

Then she spoke again briskly: "Then as you are not personally 
anxious for the saloons, only advocating them as a means for raising the 
necessary revenue, of course, if the money could be raised as easily some 
other way, you would not force a saloon upon the town against the 
expressed wishes of a majority of the people — all the best people. Now, 
of course, as business men, you realize that the saloon-keeper does not 
intend to pay all his profits into the town treasury as license money. He 
means to have enough left, after paying all expenses, to furnish a hand- 
some living for himself and family, and usually to build a fine house in a 
year or two or start a bank account. And the money for all this — plate 
glass, marble, gas and mirrors, handsome living, carriages and horses, 
fine residence, or bank account — all must come out of all pockets of the 
community as well as the license money. As any business man will see at a 
glance, this is a tremendously costly and wasteful way of raising money. 
Mr. Gaylord proposes about three saloons, to be kept in the finest style, 
and a license of two hundred dollars per annum. That will pay $600 
into the treasury — but no business man would think of fittting up such 
a place of business unless he expected to clear at least a thousand dollars 
a year from it, more likely twice that. So, that, in order to clear $600 
for the repairs of our sidewalks, our people will really pay from $3,600 
to $6,000 — even supposing said saloons cause no drunkenness, no crime 
and no costly accident. 

"Of course, you see, gentlemen, that it would save thousands of 
dollars for the people, to pay this money direct into the treasury and not 
add all this extra expense. And no doubt if the matter were fairly put 
before them, they would be more than willing to do so. What sensible 
man is going to pay out thousands of dollars, either individually or as 
one of a community, when a few hundreds will secure the same results? 
I am sorry that we cannot see personally all who are represented in the 
financial support of the saloon, but they are fairly well represented here. 
Here is Mrs. Murphy, who calculates that if you have saloons, she will 
be obliged to contribute at least a dollar a week for their support from 
her earnings at the washtub. That is what she had to do when we had 
saloons last time — through her good husband, of course. Now, she 
would very much prefer, if you insist on her paying $50 toward the 
repair of the sidewalks and the bridge, that you would not license 



294 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

saloons, but would pertnit her to pay her money directly into the 
treasury. It would be cheaper for her, as in that case her husband 
could be supporting the family while she is earning the $50, instead of 
their nearly starving, as they must if it goes through the saloon and 
keeps Pat lying around drunken and idle/' 

"Thru for you, miss, to say nothing of the childer and smashing the 
chairs and tables when he's on a bit of a spree. Bad cess to the rich 
folks that's too mean to mend their own sidewalks widout takin' the 
money a poor woman's slaved at tlje washtub for; but if they must, 
there's no nade of makin' her man a drunken baste to boot," Mrs. 
Murphy declared emphatically. 

The board looked uncomfortable, and one stammered out something 
about "nothing of the sort wanted — speak to the saloon-keeper — law 
provides," but the little school mistress went briskly on, not seeming to 
hear: 

"And Mrs. Wilson here figures out that it will cost her and her 
husband about $200 this year, if you grant licenses. At least that is 
what it did last time, counting lost time and all. She thinks you might 
be content with $150 from them, seeing that they are poor folks with 
three small children, but they would give you their note for $200 sooner 
than be obliged to pay the whole $200 through the saloon." 

"Yes, yes," sobbed a poor woman with a baby in her arms. "We 
need the money bad enough, God knows, with so much sickness and all, 
but if you'll make out a note, we'll sign sooner than have the saloon 
take it all and drag him to destruction besides. There never was a 
better husband and father than Tom, and he don't want to drink, but 
if it's stuck under his nose when he is so sick and miserable, he can't 
help it." 

"Any man can help making a beast of himself if he wants to," 
growled one of the board, with a very red face. 

The poor wife's wrath blazed up instantly. 

"Yes, that's easy for you to say — you that are fat and' hearty and 
well-dressed, with nothing to do but sit around and talk business. Wait 
till you are sick and poor and shivering for want of warm clothes, and 
worn out working all day and watching a sick child half the night, till 
you feel as if you could hardly drag one foot after another. Then you'll 
know what temptation is. Oh, you can't tax the rich folks to fix up 
your streets, of course not, but you take it out of us that can hardly keep 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 295 

ourselves alive ! It's bread out of the mouths of hungry children and the 
shoes from their frost-bitten feet and the flesh off the poor little scrawny 
bodies that you take to pave your streets to save your own miserable 
purses !" she screamed hysterically. "And you can't be content with that 
even, but you must have immortal souls, too ! Take the bread and 
clothes and the flesh off their bones, if you must, but in God's name 
leave them their father, their loving, faithful, hard-working father !" 

She dropped into a chair, sobbing wildly, while the child screamed 
in terror. The board mopped their crimson faces and looked desperate. 
Mr. Gaylord spoke hastily: 

"My good woman, you are distressing yourself unnecessarily. I have 
already explained to you that the statute permits a wife to forbid the 
sale of liquor to her husband. I will myself make sure that each 
applicant for license understands the provisions of the law in these 
cases. Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Wilson have only to see these men and 
express their wishes, and their families will be as safe as if there wasn't 
a saloon within a thousand miles." 

"And is there a man living grane 'nough to expect a saloon-kaper 
to kape the law?" asked Mrs. Murphy, derisively. "Hasn't it been tried 
over and over again by them as hadn't any more sinse? Promise, is it? 
Sure, they might promise as fast as a man running for office, but devil 
a bit more would they kape their word. It's my fifty dollars they'd 
kape, and all Pat could earn to boot." 

Before he could answer, the little school mistress was speaking again. 

"And here is Miss Nettie Stone, who cannot tell exactly how much 
hard cash the saloon will cost her, but it will certainly oblige her to 
support her invalid mother and little sister entirely out of her earnings 
in the millinery shop, while, if there is no saloon, her brother will take 
part of the burden. But she knows it cannot be less than fifty or sixty 
dollars — probably much more, for if her brother begins drinking again, 
her mother will die ; and though I don't wish to incur your honor's con- 
tempt by appearing sentimental, I may remark that funeral expenses 
come high. She would contribute $30, or $40 if necessary, toward street 
repairs rather than lose so much, but considering that she is an orphan 
girl, not overly strong and the main support of her mother and sister, I 
thought, perhaps, you would be content with $25 from her." 

"But I'd pay thirty or even fifty sooner than have the saloons," 
broke in the pale-faced girl passionately. "It isn't the money — it's 



296 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

mother. It will kill her if Ralph gets to drinking again, and he will if 
you get those respectable saloons. I wouldn't care how many low, 
dirty doggeries you had ; you might cram the town with them, and Ralph 
would only be disgusted. You couldn't hire him to go in. But these 
high-class places, with their flowers and music and billiard tables — why, 
you know you can't keep the boys out of them. Half the boys in town 
will be drinking before the year is over. It will break mother's heart 
and kill her. O, for God's sake, can't you let us raise the money some 
other way?" 

"Very dramatic, very touching!" Mr. Gaylord interposed sarcastic- 
ally. "But all this is not business. These ladies know perfectly that 
their self-sacrificing offers will not be accepted. Possibly they would 
not be made so readily but for that knowledge. If all this eloquence 
.were kept for the beloved ones at home, it would be more fitting and 
probably more effective." 

"And where were you brought up, young man, to belave that?" 
demanded Mrs. Murphy, with arms akimbo. "Sure, a young feller that 
knows no more of min that thot, ought to be at home with his ma, or 
he'll get chated out of his eye-tayth. And any man that says Kate 
Murphy don't mane what she says, is a liar. Won't be accepted? And 
why not, sure? If ye have a saloon, ye'll take it, I know thot." 

"Begging your pardon, but it is just business, Mr. Gaylord," said 
the little school mistress decisively. "These ladies mean just what they 
say. Of course, they would not pay out this money, but they consider 
it would be cheaper and easier to pay it direct in this way than to pay it 
through the saloon, as they must if your plan is adopted. I pledge my 
salary as guarantee of their good faith. Will your honors please have 
your secretary to note down names and amounts? Mrs. Kate Murphy, 
$50; Mr. and Mrs. Tom Wilson, $150; Miss Nettie Stone, $50; Grandma 
Gage, $15. Grandma has no drinker in her own family, happily, but 
says she will have to give more than that to the poor family next door 
if their father goes to drinking again, and she would rather pay it in this 
way than have the poor things beaten and ill-used. Mrs. Dr. Black 
thinks $50 is all she can afford for the streets, though if you decide for 
license, it will cost her husband over $100 in bad bills that he will then 
be unable to collect; Mrs. Eleanor Denslow, $150 " 

"This is all nonsense, a ridiculous farce!" Mr. Gaylord broke in 
angrily. "Do you expect us to believe that these poor women, hardly 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 297 

able to keep themselves off the town, are going to pay these sums? 
Preposterous ! They can't do it, they haven't any idea of doing it. They 
only want to throw dust in the eyes of the board. The men I represent 
mean what they say and have the money to lay down on the spot. 
Promises are cheap at best, but promises from those who can't possibly 
fulfill them are a little too much." 

"When women offer everything they have in the world to save 
their loved ones from destruction, it is a tragedy, not a farce, Mr. Gay- 
lord," said Mrs. Densmore, tremulously. "Gentlemen, the last time this 
town went for license, I had two noble sons and a little property. In 
two years the saloon took every dollar we had laid by, our little farm — 
and my eldest son. Thank God, he lived long enough after the accident 
to die repentant and forgiven. None the less, the saloon killed him, my 
brave, bright boy! If you license saloons this year, I shall lose every- 
thing I have left — my tiny home and my one remaining son. I only 
beg of you to be content with taking the home and leave me my boy. 
Surely, that is not too much for a mother to ask of Christian men. 

"I mean just what I say, gentlemen. Pledge yourselves solemnly 
that there shall be no saloons this year and within two hours I will lay 
down the hard cash on this table, though I must mortgage everything 
I own in the world to raise it." 

"And I will give you my personal note, pledging my salary as 
security, that these other ladies will keep their word," the school mistress 
added briskly. "There will be no difficulty in finding some one who 
will be my security. We will pay quarterly as the saloon-keepers would. 
Of course, we shall desire a written contract from you; that is only 
business. I could have wished that more of those who must pay the 
saloon revenues had been here. It is scarcely fair that less than a dozen 
hardworking women should do it all, still it is cheaper for them than to 
help support saloons. But I haven't finished my list; Miss Grace For- 
syth, $25 " 

"That little cripple, $25 ! Ridiculous ! Better say 25 cents !" snapped 
Mr. Gaylord. 

"It is a large sum for a sickly girl to earn with her needle, I am 
aware. But not half what she must earn to keep the family from 
starvation, if you have saloons to take her father's wages and waste his 
time. Then Miss Jennie Drew thinks she can better afford to give you 
$40 than to half support her sister's family, as she was obliged to last 



298 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



time, and it will be so much better for the children. Mrs. A. M. Gray- 



"We really cannot let these poor sisters do it all," interrupted one of 
the pastors, rising to the occasion. "I think I am perfectly safe in pledg- 
ing my congregation for a hundred dollars. We have never seen the 
matter in just this light before, but I will lay it before them next Sun- 
day, if Miss Pierce will kindly assist me, and I am so sure of their action 
that sooner than have your honorary body hesitate, I will give my note 
for that amount now." 

"And I'll go security/ declared the deacon, thumping the table 
emphatically. "We'll save money by it, too. Had to pay out nearly 
that much last year to help Sister Vale's family through while her hus- 
band was in jail, besides all the groceries and clothing our Charity and 
Help Committee had to give out that winter." 

"Fanaticism run mad !" growled Mr. Gaylord. "What's the need of 
charity in a town where washwomen, shop girls, and seamstresses go 
begging for the privilege of throwing money away? Very dramatic, my 
dear ladies ! But rather too stagy for every-day life !" 

"It is precisely because they are too poor to throw away money, that 
they wish, since they are obliged to pay for the repair of the streets, 
to do it in the cheapest and easiest way. There is no fanaticism about it. 
Just plain business," Miss Pierce began resolutely, but Mrs. Murphy 
broke in : 

'And what odds does it make to their honors whether we hand them 
the money straight or whether the saloon man takes it out av our 
pockets to thim — wid a hape of it stickin' to his own dirty fingers? 
But it's meself can see why ye don't want us to do it in the cheapest way. 
It's a share in one av the saloons ye'd have, and the big end av me $50 
in yer own pocket. And that's why ye're trying to bamboozle their 
honors into belaving that black is white." 

"Great guessej, isn't she?" cried one of the "business" delegation, 
clapping his hand heavily on Gaylord's shoulder, and several of them 
who had been growing uncomfortably sober for the last ten minutes, 
broke into a loud laugh at their spokeman's expense. Plainly her chance 
shot had hit the mark. 

"Count on my church for another fifty," said another pastor. "We 

are not very well off, but we'll do that much for the salvation of souls." 

-: "There will be no license granted this year !" suddenly and decidedly 

spoke out one of the board hitherto regarded as neutral, if not actually 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 299 

a friend of the saloon, and looked defiantly at his colleagues. One sat 
sullenly silent, another muttered sourly, but the others nodded a hasty, 
relieved assent. 

"Neither will we trouble any of you for forced contributions," he 
went on. "We are very much obliged to Miss Pierce for her striking 
presentation of the case, and we don't question the sincerity of any of the 
ladies, but if the men who own property in this town can't pay for their 
own sidewalks, they can go without." 

And once more his colleagues nodded assent in real relief. 

"We want to do what the people want done, that's all," said the 
chairman of the board, another neutral, hastily. "Of course, no civilized 
man wants this sort of thing, not if he understands it straight. Good-day, 
ladies. Keep your money for yourselves and your families, and if any- 
body grumbles because he can't get his sidewalk for nothing, we'll refer 
him to Miss Pierce or Mrs. Murphy. Now, gentlemen, what is the next 
business to consider ?"— Ada E. Ferris in Tract 



PART II 

INCIDENTS 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 303 

ONLY A VOTE. 

A local option contest was going on in W , and Mrs. Kent was 

trying to influence her husband to vote "No License." Willie Kent, six 
years old, was, of course, on his mamma's side. The night before elec- 
tion Mr. Kent went to see Willie safe in bed, and hushing his prattle, 
he said: "Now, Willie, say your prayers." 

"Papa, I want to say my own words tonight," he replied. "All right, 
my boy, that is the best kind of praying," answered the father. 

Fair was the picture, as Willie, robed in white, knelt at his father's 
knee and prayed reverently: "O dear Jesus, do help papa to vote 'No 
Whiskey' tomorrow. Amen." 

Morning came, the village was alive with excitement. Women's 
hands, made hard by toil, were stretched to God for help in the decision. 

The day grew late, and yet Mr. Kent had not been to the polls. 
Willie's prayer sounded in his ears, and troubled conscience said : "An- 
swer your boy's petition with your ballot." 

At last he stood at the polling-place with two tickets in his hand — 
one License ; the other No License. Sophistry, policy, avarice, said : 
"Vote License." Conscience echoed : "No License." After a moment's 
hesitation, he threw from him the No License ticket and put the License 
in the box. 

The next day it was found that the contest was so close that it 
needed but one vote to carry the town for prohibition. In the afternoon 
Willie found a No License ticket, and, having heard only one vote was 
necessary, he started out to find the man who would cast this one ballot 
against wrong, and in his eagerness he flew along the streets. 

The saloon men were having a jubilee, and the highways were filled 
with drunken rowdies. Little Willie rushed on through the unsafe 
crowd. 

Hark ! a random pistol-shot from a drunken quarrel, a pierced heart, 
and sweet Willie Kent had his death-wound. 

They carried him home to his mother. His father was quickly sum- 
moned, and the first swift thought that came to him, as he stood over 
his lifeless boy, was : "Willie will never pray again that I may vote No 
Whiskey." 

With a strange, still grief he took in his own the quiet little hand, 
chilling into marble coldness, and there between the fingers, firmly 



304 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



clasped, was the No License ballot with which the brave little soul 
thought to change the verdict of yesterday. 

Mr. Kent started back in shame and sorrow. That vote in his hand 
might have answered the prayer so lately on his lips, now dumb, and 
perhaps averted the awful calamity. Fathers, may not the hands of the 
"thousands slain" make mute appeal to you? Your vote is what God 




There between the fingers, firmly clasped, was the No License ballot.' 



requires of you. You are as responsible for it being in harmony with 
His law, as if on it hung the great decision. — Touching Incidents and 
Remarkable Answers to Prayer. 

NEW SHOES. 

"I wonder if there can be a pair of shoes in it !" 

Little Tim sat on the ground close beside a very ugly dark-colored 
stone jug. He eyed it sharply, but finding it quite impossible to see 
through its sides, pulled out the cork and peered anxiously in. "Can't 
see nothing but it's so dark in there I couldn't see if there was any- 
thing. I've a great mind to break the hateful old thing." 

He sat for a while thinkng how badly he wanted a pair of shoes to 
wear to the Sunday-school picnic. His mother had promised to wash 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



305 



and mend his clothes, so that he might be looking very neat indeed; but 
the old shoes were far past all mending and how could he go barefoot? 
Then he began counting the chances of his father being very 
angry when he should find his jug broken. He did not like the idea 
of getting a whipping for it, as was very likely, but how could he resist 
the temptation of making sure about those shoes? The more he thought 
of them, the more he couldn't. He sprang up and hunted around until 




"I was lookin' for a pair of new shoes." 

he found a good-sized brick-bat, which he flung with such vigorous hand 
and correct aim that the next moment the old jug lay in pieces before 
his eyes. 

How eagerly he bent over them in the hope of finding not only what 
he was so longing for, but, perhaps, other treasure ! But his poor little 
heart sank as he turned over the fragments with trembling fingers. 
Nothing could be found among the broken bits, wet on the inside with 
a bad-smelling liquid. 

Tim sat down again and sobbed as he had never sobbed before; so 
hard that he did not hear a step beside him until a voice said: 

"Well! what's all this?" 



306 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

He sprang up in great alarm. It was his father, who always slept 
late in the morning, and was very seldom awake so early as this. 

"Who broke my jug?" he asked. "I did," said Tim, catching his 
breath half in terror and half between his sobs. 

"Why did you?" Tim looked up. The voice did not souno, quite 
so terrible as he had expected. The truth was, his father had been 
touched at sight of the forlorn figure, so very small and so sorrowful, 
which had bent over the broken jug. 

"Why," he said, "I was lookin' for a pair of new shoes. I want a 
pair of shoes awful bad to wear to the picnic. All the other chaps 
wear shoes." 

"How came you to think you'd find shoes in a jug?" 

"Why, mamma said so. I asked her for some new shoes, and she 
said they had gone into the black jug, and that lots of other things had 
gone into it, too — coats and hats, and bread and meat and things — and 
I thought if I broke it I'd find 'em all, and there ain't a thing in it — and 
mamma never said what wasn't so before — and I thought 't would be 
so — sure." 

And Tim, hardly able to sob out the words, feeling how keenly his 
trust in mother's word had added to his great disappointment, sat down 
again, and cried harder than ever. 

His father seated himself on a box in the disorderly yard, and 
remained quiet for so long a time that Tim at last looked timidly up. 

"I am real sorry I broke your jug, father. I'll never do it again." 

"No, I guess you won't," he said, laying a hand on the rough little 
head as he went away, leaving Tim overcome with astonishment that 
his father had not been angry with him. 

Two days after, on the very evening before the picnic, he handed 
Tim a parcel, telling him to open it. 

"New shoes ! new shoes !" he shouted. "Oh, father, did you get 
a new jug and were they in it?" 

"No, my boy, there isn't going to be. a new jug. Your mother 
was right all the time — the things all went into the jug; but you see 
getting them out is no easy matter, so I am going to keep them out 
after this." — New York Observer. 

"I'LL NEVER STEAL AGAIN— -IF FATHER KILLS ME FOR IT." 

A friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the room 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



307 



of a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through 
the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up 




'Hush! don't tell him! don't tell him! but look here." 



there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself up through the hole, and 
found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came 
through a bull's-eye in the place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips 
and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old. 

"Boy, what are you doing there?" 

"Hush! don't tell anybody — please, sir." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Don't tell anybody, sir; I'm hiding." 

"What are you hiding from?" 

"Don't tell anybody, if you please, sir." 

"Where's your mother?" 



308 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Mother is dead." 

" Where's your father?" 

"Hush ! don't tell him ! don't tell him ! but look here !" He turned 
himself on his face, and through the rags of his jacket and shirt, my 
friend saw the boy's flesh was bruised and the skin was broken. 

"Why, my boy, who beat you like that?" 

"Father did, sir." 

"What did your father beat you like that for?" 

"Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal." 

"Did you ever steal?" 

"Yes, sir. I was a street thief once." 

"And why don't you steal any more?" 

"Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there 
of God, and of heaven, and of Jesus ; and they taught me, 'Thou shalt 
not steal' ; and I'll never steal again, if father kills me for it. But, please, 
sir, don't tell him." 

"My boy, you must not stay here; you will die. Now, you wait 
patiently here for a little time ; I'm going away to see a lady. We will 
get a better place for you than this." 

"Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a 
little hymn?" 

Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, motherless, hiding away from 
an infuriated father, he had a little hymn to sing. 

"Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." 

He raised himself on his elbow and then sang: 

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, 
Look upon a little child; 
Suffer me to come to Thee. 
Fain would I to Thee be brought, 
Gracious Lord, forbid it not; 
In the kingdom of Thy grace 
Give a little child a place." 

"That's the little hymn, sir. Good-bye." 

The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours, 
and climbed the ladder. There were the chips, and there was the little 
boy with one hand by his side, and the other tucked in his bosom, under- 
neath the little ragged shirt — dead. — John B. Gough in "Touching In- 
cidents." 



, STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 309 

WHAT BECAME OF THEM* 

An Ohio correspondent of the "Tennessee Good Templar" gives the 
following sad illustration of the wages of sin: 

"The most hopeless feature of intemperance is that it stupefies its 
victims to any convictions of fears of their own future. Forty years ago 
I noted down ten drinkers, six young men and four boys. I saw the 
boys drink beer and buy cigars in what was then called a 'grocery/ or 
'doggery/ I expressed my disapprobation and the seller gave a coarse 
reply. He continued the business, and in fifteen years he died of delir- 
ium tremens, leaving not five dollars. 

"I never lost sight of these ten, only as the clods of the valley hid 
their bodies from human vision. Of the six young men, one died of 
delirium tremens, and one in a drunken fit; two died of diseases pro- 
duced by their excesses, before they reached the meridian of life; two 
of them left families not provided for, and two sons are drunkards. Of 
the two remaining, one is a miserable wreck, and the other a drinker in 
somewhat better condition. 

"Of the four boys, one, who had a good mother, grew up a sober 
man ; one was killed by a club in a drunken broil ; one has served two 
terms in the penitentiary, and one has drank himself into an inoffensive 
dolt, whose family has to provide for him." — The Christian. 

HIS DRINK CURE. 

A certain Indianapolis lawyer, who has a good practice now, quit 
drinking whiskey and beer and other intoxicants, too, for that matter, 
two or three years ago, and he didn't take the Keeley cure, either. A 
German saloonkeeper of whom the lawyer bought most of his liquor 
administered the cure, and it has been effective. 

For several years the lawyer had been buying nearly all of his drinks 
at this particular saloon. He paid his bills there the same as he paid his 
grocery bills. Finally the old saloonkeeper bought a house and lot, and 
he employed another lawyer who never bought drinks to prepare the 
abstract and the deed and transact other business in connection with the 
deal. The lawyer who had been the regular customer heard about it. 
He was filled with rage, and he went at once to demand an explanation. 

"Here," he yelled as he leaned over the bar and appointed an accus- 



310 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

ing finger at the old German. "I buy all my drinks here. I have bought 
my drinks here for years. I have spent hundreds of dollars in this place. 
And the very minute you have some work for a lawyer to do, you go and 
employ someone else. That's what you do. You go and, and " 

"Veil," interrupted the old German in the midst of the harangue of 
accusation, "when I got business, I want it done by a sober lawyer." 

The offending lawyer turned and walked out, and his friends say 
he has drunk nothing stronger than coflee since. — Indianapolis News. 

JUST ONE DRINK. 

It was at a children's party. A beautiful little girl with a face as 
sweet as a cherub, and yet marked with sadness, sat in a small rocking 
chair watching the other children play and taking no part. A dainty 
white cape, edged with lace, was thrown about her. More than one 
child wondered why, but presently they all found out "why." During 
one of the games one of the guests approached the beautiful stranger 
with kindly attention. They were playing "Barbie Brunt." "Put out 
your hands," she said, "and I'll fill 'em full to the brim." 

But the gentle request was not obeyed. "Put out your hands, I 
say," demanded the leader. "Don't you want to play?" Still the child 
did not put out her hands. Her face paled. She tried to speak, but 
could not find her voice. At this moment the little hostess, a charming 
child, entered the room. Finding her guests watching the little visitor 
(who was spending a few days at her home), who looked disturbed, she 
asked : 

"What's the matter?" 

"She won't play 'Barbie Brunt,' " was the answer. 

"She can't play 'Barbie Brunt,' " said the hostess, sorrowfully. 

The little stranger had no arms. She was the child of wealthy par- 
ents who did all they could for her comfort and pleasure, but they could 
not bring her arms to her. 

It is a sad story. One day she was sitting on the front doorstep of 
her beautiful home — a happy, laughing child. While she sat there 
singing a lullaby to her dolly, her brother came home. He had a gun in 
his hand and was staggering. She thought he was staggering for fun, 
and she laughed with childish glee. 

"I'm going to shoot you," he said angrily. Then she was afraid. As 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 311 

he raised the gun she bent her head and threw up her hands. The boy 
fired. The dear little hands of the child were almost completely shot off. 
They had to be amputated at her wrists, and later, to save her life, her 
arms were cut off. 

The boy was broken-hearted; he wanted to put himself out of the 
world. He had always loved his little sister, but "just one drink" had 
made him wild. He never took a drop of intoxicating drink after that 
"black day" in his life's calendar. But even his remorseful agony could 
not bring back the dimpled arms to his beloved little sister. His hair 
grew white before he was of age. Notwithstanding his father's wealth 
his days are spent in hard manual labor. He wants to forget that black 
day, but he cannot. No matter how tired he is, he never rests his weary 
head upon the pillow without this thought haunting him : 

"Janie's dear little arms ! Janie's dear little arms ! The price of just 
one drink." — Temperance Banner. 

THE TEARLESS HANDKERCHIEF. 

When the death of John B. Gough was announced, wagon loads of 
flowers were turned back from the door of his home with the orders 
that these flowers be distributed among the poor. When the vast con- 
gregation of people came to the funeral, there was not a flower upon the 
casket ; the only decoration was a little faded, tear-stained handkerchief, 
and the story of the handkerchief was this : Many years before that, a 
young lady had married a young man, and they had gone to the city of 
New York to live. 

After they had finally settled there the wife found that he was a 
drunkard and gambler, and soon began to leave her alone at night. Two 
little children came into their home; but he cared not for them, seem- 
ingly, for he would be out all night. Then he began to beat his family, 
curse them, and then began pawning the furniture. 

One by one the pieces of furniture that she had brought from old 
Kentucky were sent down to the pawnshop. After a while this poor 
woman had to go out and wash for a living that her children might have 
bread to eat. She had one treasure left, that was the piano that her 
mother had given her on her wedding day. She would take her little 
tots and play on the piano and sing to them ; then they would say their 
little prayers and go to bed. 



312 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

She came home one night and her piano was gone. She knew what 
it meant. The last thing she had to tell of her old home had been 
pawned by her husband for drink. Her heart was breaking, but her 
babies came and asked her to sing. She put her arms around them and 
did the best she could without her piano. 

Somehow the whiskey had not tasted as good that night as usual. 
(Sometimes when mixed with a woman's tears it gets a little bitter.) 
Her husband came home not so drunk as usual. As he came around the 
house he looked in at the window and saw the children in their little 
nighties, and his wife singing a lullaby song; then they prayed, kneeling 
down beside her. 

Each one asked God to bless them, to bless mamma, then to bless 
papa, and help him be good and bring him home sober. He slipped in, 
and knelt down by his wife's side, and said, "Wife, if you'll forgive 
me I'll never do it again.," She said, "Tom, will you sign the pledge to- 
night?" He said, "I will." They went down together to a hall where 
John B. Gough, the great temperance lecturer, was giving a lecture. 
Tom went up and put his name down. 

One day, at the time of Mr. Gough's illness, this woman came to 
his home, and she told her story to Mrs. Gough. She said, "I hoped I 
might give some presents to Mr. Gough, but I cannot do it. I have 
brought my handkerchief. I have not shed a tear since the night Tom 
signed the pledge. I brought this, and thought I would give it to Mr. 
Gough." When Mr. Gough heard this, he told his wife to send all 
flowers that might be sent to him at his funeral to the poor, and to put 
nothing but that little handkerchief on his casket and tell the people 
that there was one soul on earth that he had helped make happier. When 
the people saw that little handkerchief on the casket of John B. Gough, 
it taught them a lesson all the flowers in the world couldn't have taught. 
— Selected by Evangelical Friend. 

IT SAVES THE BOYS. 

The best argument I have found in Maine for prohibition was by 
an editor of a paper in Portland, who was for political reasons mildly 
opposed to it. I had a conversation with him that ran something like 
this: 

"Where were you born?" 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 313 

"In a little village about sixty miles from Bangor." 

"Do you remember the condition of things in your village prior to 
prohibition?" 

"Distinctly. There was a vast amount of drunkenness, and conse- 
quent disorder and poverty." 

"What was the effect of prohibition?" 

"It shut up all the rum-shops, and practically banished liquor from 
the village. It became one of the most quiet and prosperous places on 
the globe." 

"How long did you live in the village after prohibition?" 

"Eleven years, or until I was twenty-one years of age." 

"Then?" 

"Then I went to Bangor." 

"Do you drink now?" 

"I have never tasted a drop of liquor in my life." 

"Why?" 

"Up to the age of twenty-one I never saw it, and after that I did 
not care to take on the habit." 

That is all there is in it. If the boys of the country are not exposed 
to the infernalism, the men are very sure not to be. This man and his 
schoolmates were saved from rum by the fact that they could not get it 
until they were old enough to know better. Few men are drunkards who 
know not the poison till after they are twenty-one. It is the youth that 
the whiskey and beer men want. — North American Review. 

JACK AND HIS HARD LUMP. 

"Halloo, Jack! Won't you have a glass this cold morning?" cried a 
bloated-looking saloonkeeper to a sailor who was quickly stepping along 
the road. 

Jack had formerly been a hard drinker and had spent many a week's 
wages in the saloon he was now passing, but a year ago he had signed 
the pledge. 

"No! I can't drink; I've got a hard lump at my side." As the 
sailor said these words he pressed his hands against his side, adding, "Oh, 
this hard lump !" 

"It's all through leaving off grog," replied the saloonkeeper. "Some 
good drink will take your lump away. If you are fool enough to keep 



314 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

from your grog your lump will get bigger, and very likely you'll be hav- 
ing a hard lump at your other side." 

"True ! true ! old boy/' with a hearty laugh, responded the sailor, as 
he drew out a bag of gold from his side pocket and held it up to the 
saloonkeeper's gaze. ''Here's my hard lump. You are right in saying 
that if I drink my lump will go away, and if I stick to teetotal I shall 
have a bigger lump. Good-bye to you. By God's help I'll keep out of 
your net and try to get a lump at both sides !" — Selected. 

THE WORK OF A SALOON. 

"A man was shot in the saloon over here on the corner of Adams 
and Green streets about an hour ago," was the report brought to us 
Friday, August 14, and soon the newsboys were calling out very loudly, 
"Extra paper! Ex — tra paper! All about the Adams street murder!" 
That night as we were on our way to the mission we were horrified to 
learn that the man, who was shot by the bartender, only a block and a 
half from the mission home, was the father of our dear little Sunday- 
school boy, Mark. Oh, the awful, awful work of this deadly foe, the 
licensed saloon ! 

We soon visited the home of little Mark and tried to comfort his 
broken-hearted mother, who was moaning out in her grief, "Ah, they 
have taken everything I had in this world, except my poor little boy, 
and we'll have a h-a-r-d road to travel." We knelt in prayer by her 
side and called upon the God of all comfort to help this sorrowing one 
and teach her the way of life and peace, for we knew her anguish was 
too deep for our human hearts to fathom and soothe. 

Two of our number attended the funeral, and as the one they had 
hoped to secure could not be present to officiate, we were requested to 
take charge of the service. Quite a number of the men and women of 
this neighborhood and others from some distance away gathered in the 
gloom-shadowed home to pay their last respects to the one whose life 
was snatched away in a moment of time ; and we realized the great re- 
sponsibility of pointing these people to Jesus, the Lamb of God, and 
warning those on the downward road to flee the wrath to come. We 
felt the Lord helping us to sing, pray and speak in His name, and tears 
came to the eyes of many of those who listened. God grant that our 
simple effort, made in such weakness, may result in leading some whose 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 315 

hearts have long been hardened by sin to turn their feet into the ways 
of righteousness. Two sisters of the deceased were present and be- 
moaned greatly the untimely loss of their favorite brother. "He was 
brought up under Christian influence," said one of the sisters, speaking 
to us after the service. Oh, how the hearts of these dear women were 
pained as they saw their brother lying cold in death through the influ- 
ence of the saloon ! Between her sobs the sister also told us that only 
about a year ago, the last time she visited her brother, he remarked, as 
he bade her good-bye at the train, that he would not have been living 
the kind of life he was leading if mother had lived. One of mother's 
boys, and one of sister's favorites ! Oh, how many of them neglect to 
follow the loving counsel given in youthful days and neglect to accept 
the only One who can make life a success, until suddenly the awful foe 
has swept away their last opportunity ! 

We looked at the great, handsome form of little Mark's father and 
had to admit that he was an exceptionally fine specimen of the physical 
man. A confirmed drunkard? No, not that; a big-hearted, loving 
father and a generous friend, but a man who dared go into the saloon 
with his friends and take a drink when he wanted to do so; and they 
wanted him to go this special day, which proved to be his last. One of 
his friends had a difference with the barkeeper, who, upon being attacked, 
instantly fired, killing Mark's father and wounding another of the party. 

Oh, precious voter, could you look with us into the wide, horrified 
eyes of our little fatherless Sunday-school boy and see the sad, haggard 
look on his little pale face, usually so cheerful and bright; could you 
hear the frenzied wail of his grief-stricken mother, "Oh, he was always 
so good to me !" could you witness the tears flowing from the eyes of 
those loving, disappointed sisters who had so wanted their favorite 
brother to shun those awful dens of iniquity, if your heart has not 
already turned to stone, it would break and bleed in pity and you would 
surely realize that in God's sight we are "our brother's keeper." 

When asked by the coroner if he should not hold the murderer for 
trial, that he might be punished, Mark's mother replied pathetically, 
"No, no ; God will take care of him !" Ah, and God will take care of the 
nation that legalizes these death-traps of Satan. James Otis, who was 
the father of the first Congress, said, "Civil government is of God." If he 
lived today to fight the tyranny and oppression of the liquor traffic he 
would surely say, "Prohibition is of God, and to sanction or screen the 



316 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

making and selling of distilled damnation is of the devil/' — Olive Branch. 

"PAPA MADE ME DRUNK." 

"These are the last words, repeated over and over again, of a little 
boy who recently died from the effects of whiskey. His father, an old 
acquaintance of mine," says A. T. Goodlove, "carried a jug of whiskey 
home with him from town, and gave each of his children a dram out of it. 
This child was brought under control of the whiskey devil by the drink 
given to him, and slipped to the jug, as soon as he could do so 
unobserved, to get as much of the fiery liquor as his cravings called 
for. When found he was lying on the floor by the jug unable to move, 
and insensible. The doctor was sent for, and he was roused sufficiently 
to say, and keep saying till he died, "Papa made me drunk." — Selected. 

GOSPEL TEMPERANCE. 

John G. Woolley related the following experience before a body of 
young people as an illustration of Gospel Temperance work: 

I walked the streets of New York City one August day, starving — 
but I was sober. The play of my life was over ; the light had burned out. 
I was a ruined man, godless and hopeless, and that is Hell, whether it 
happens to a man in this world or another. I saw three witches — 
starvation, beggary and crime — stirring a black broth for me on the 
bleakest moor of life that ever the fanged hounds of appetite and remorse 
haunted a man over. But I was sober. 

So I looked back upon the wreck of my life that day. All was lost. 
Father had died calling to me to come to him from the saloon to see 
him die. Mother had died calling me to stay out of the saloon and see 
her die. My wife was worse than widowed; her children worse than 
orphans — shelterless but for the grace of creditors and God's canopy 
that shelters all — and the future was an infinity of pitch. 

But I was sober ! If I had said that I had left off drink forever, no 
man who knew me would believe me. If I had been able to telegraph 
my wife I was going home, she would have answered, though it broke 
her heart, "You must not come home." If I asked for employment, no 
man would trust me. The asylum would not receive me, for I was sane ; 
nor the hospitals, for I was not sick; nor the morgue, for I was not 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 317 

dead. I had not been to bed, for I had no bed. I remembered nothing 
of the night before, or of the morning, but I was sober. I thought I 
was going mad. 

I washed my face at the fountain at Union Square, and crossed' over 
to Eighth Avenue. At the corner of Twenty-first Street I saw the sign 
of Stephen Merritt — you know him, some of you; all the angels know 
him well. I had never seen him, but had heard of him. It was not 
food I thought of, but an overwhelming desire filled me to touch the 
hand of a good man. I entered. A man with the joy of the Lord in 
his face came to meet me with his hand extended, and as he grasped 
mine I said, "I don't know why I came." The sentence was never 
finished, for I burst into tears, and then I told him who and what I was. 
I said not a word about money or hunger, for I had forgotten both. 

He said : "You need the woods ! Did you ever go to camp-meeting? 
I have a tent on the Hudson at the camp-meeting; there is a boat at one 
o'clock. You can catch it. Go on and rest, and perhaps you'll enjoy 
the sermons, too. I'll be out in three days." Then he snatched up a 
pen and wrote a letter to a Christian woman, and read it to me before 
he closed it : "This is my friend', John G. Woolley, of Minneapolis ; 
show him to my tent, and do for him as you would do for me." Then 
he slipped a five dollar bill into my hand and said : "Good-bye ; see 
you Monday," and pretending he was called, was gone before I said 
a word. 

I call that Gospel Temperance work. And when a young man 
simply declines a glass of wine, giving the name of Jesus for the reason, 
I call that Gospel Temperance. — Selected. 

WAITING FOR HIS DRUNKEN MOTHER. 

Lady Henry Somerset recently said : "Some years ago I was passing 
along a great thoroughfare at the hour of midnight, and I saw a little 
boy sitting on the curb and anxiously looking at the illuminated clock 
at the end of the street. I asked him what he was waiting for. T am 
waiting to bring mother home,' said he. Every night that little boy, 
eight years of age, went there and waited for his drunken mother to 
come out of the public house, so that he could conduct her to the place 
they called home. We must look after these children, or England will 
disappear with that great crowd of nations which have passed away in 
disgrace and ruin." 



318 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

HER UNIQUE DEFINITION OF TEETOTALISM. . 

Paying- a visit of inspection one day to a large English school, an 
inspector found a teacher exercising a class in the subject of definitions. 
One interrogation put to them seemed for a moment a great puzzle. 
The question was: "What is teetotalism? ,, 

At last one tiny girl, whose pinched face and shabby clothes bespoke 
hard times at home, put up her hand and cried out : "I know, teacher !" 

Both teacher and visitor felt lumps rise in their throats as the answer 
came, in the thin, piping treble : "Teetotalism means bread and butter." 

With tears swelling in her eyes, the teacher said: "You must 
explain that." 

And the small damsel promptly replied: 

"Because when father's teetotal we get bread and butter, and when 
he is not, we have to go without." — Home Herald. 

BRAVE BILL AND HIS ENEMY. 

When the report of the loss of the Maine reached this country, the 
account was given also of the dauntless courage with which the officers 
and sailors met the disaster. One man, while the thunder of the explosion 
was still sounding in his ears, appeared at the door of Captain Sigsbee's 
cabin, and touching his cap, said calmly: 

"Excuse me, sir, I have to report that the ship has blown up and 
is sinking." 

He faced an almost certain death in order to save the captain's life. 

When the story was told, the heart of the nation responded with a 
proud throb. Every American felt honored by the courage and coolness 
of his countryman, and rejoiced that by some happy chance he was 
among the few who were saved. 

His after-story is brief, and as it has been told in all the daily 
journals, there can be no indelicacy in reciting it here. 

He was a marine orderly on the Maine, a gallant, generous, friendly 
young fellow, who had but one enemy — he drank to excess. After the 
destruction of the Maine, he came to this country, and was received with 
praise and affection as a hero. His friends gathered around him; he 
married, and soon had another position. He loved his work, his friends, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 319 



and his wife ; but not work, nor friends, nor home could drag him away 
from the fatal habit. 

Not two years from that day when, a hero among heroes, he trod 
the deck of the sinking ship, he sat alone in a public park in New York, 
a miserable outcast, who, for liquor, had given up all that made life dear. 
Mad with want and despair, he kissed the picture of his child, and put 
an end to his life — a life which God had fitted to make happy and 
noble. 

We tell this story to American boys, as we would point out a beast 
of prey hidden by the path along which they must walk/ — Youth's Com- 
panion. 

A REPLY TO THE MODERATE DRINKER. 

That staunch old Scotchman, Dr. Arnot, gives a good illustration 
of the total abstinence question. "You will find the world full of men who 
will tell you they 'are not obliged to sign away their liberty in order to 
keep on the safe side.' 'They know when they have had enough; no 
danger of their becoming drunkards/ and the like/' 

Dr. Arnot says : "True, you are not obliged ; but here is a river we 
have to cross. It is broad and deep and rapid; whoever falls into it is 
sure to be drowned. Here is a narrow foot-bridge, a single timber 
extending across. He who is lithe of limb and steady of brain and nerve 
may step over it in safety. Yonder is a broad, strong bridge. Its foun- 
dations are solid rock. Its passages are wide ; its balustrade is high and 
firm. All may cross it in perfect safety — the aged and feeble, the young 
and gay, the tottering wee ones. There is no danger there. Now, my 
friends, you say, T am not obliged to go yonder. Let them go there who 
cannot walk this timber/ True, true, you are not obliged, but as for 
you, we know that if we cross that timber, though we may go safely, 
many others who will attempt to follow us will surely perish. And we 
feel better to go by the bridge !" 

Walking a foot-bridge over a raging torrent is risky business, but it 
is safety itself compared with tampering with strong drink. — Home 
Herald. 

SAILORS OF THE MAINE. 

"Three hundred sailors gave up their lives in the Maine disaster, 
accident or no accident, and the country went into spasms of excite- 
ment because of the sacrifice. Every year in Chicago, four thousand 



320 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

persons give up their lives because of the contaminated water supply, 
and there is no question as to accident or no accident. We know all 
about it. Why not declare war on those persons who are trying to main- 
tain this slaughter of innocents by opposing the intercepting and purify- 
ing sewers?" The question, asked by a Chicago newspaper, is apropos. 
We suggest that the American public also consider this one : Every 
year in the United States one hundred thousand persons give up their 
lives because of the supply of intoxicating drinks — to say nothing of 
all the miseries entailed and the thousands of other lives that are 
wrecked by it — and there is no question as to accident. Why not 
declare war on those persons who maintain this slaughter by opposing 
the only remedy for such wholesale destruction — the prohibition of the 
liquor traffic? — Union Signal. 

A GOOD JUDGE OF WHISKY. 

There is a certain debate in progress over the good or ill" effects 
of whisky upon the human system, and we want expert opinion when it 
can be found. Therefore, when someone in a position to know, rises 
to speak, we cheerfully listen ; and if it is discovered that the gentleman 
hails from Kentucky, he has that profound attention that is due the voice 
of an authority ; but when we learn that the man who has addressed the 
chair is a genuine Kentucky colonel, let nobody leave the place nor rustle 
a fan, for the truth about whisky is at last within our reach. 

Well, such testimony has been given. The "New York Times" 
states that Col. W. M. Thomas of Kentucky, lately gave some interest- 
ing testimony on the subject of whisky, before the Food Standards Com- 
mittee in that city. To quote the "Times :" 

"Much of the so-called better-class whisky sold now, Col. Thomas 
said, was made from alcohol distilled from corn, filtered through char- 
coal to remove the fusil oil and other impurities, and mixed with about 
one-fifth of its volume of pure old Bourbon or rye whisky. Such a 
compound, he said, might not be positively injurious, but it could 
hardly be called pure whisky. 

"By far the greater portion of the stuff sold as whisky, he declared, 
however, was made by taking Cologne spirits, coloring it artificially, and 
adding artificial essences, ethers, and oils to imitate the taste, and appear- 
ance of whisky. Such concoctions, Col . Thomas said, were unfit for 
human use.' , 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 321 

A PATHETIC STORY. 

I was sitting at my breakfast table one Sabbath morning, when I 
was called to my door by the ring of the bell. There stood a boy, about 
fourteen years of age, poorly clad, but tidied up as best he could. 

He was leaning upon crutches ; one leg off at the knee. In a voice 
trembling with emotion, and tears coursing down his cheeks, he said : 

"Mr. Hoagland, I am Freddy Brown. I have come to see if you 
will go to the jail and talk and pray with my father. He is to be hung 
to-morrow for the murder of my mother. My father was a good man, 
but whiskey did it. I have three little sisters, younger than myself. 
We are very, very poor, and have no friends. We live in a dark and 
dingy room. I do the best I can to support my sisters, by selling 
papers, blacking boots, and odd jobs, but, Mr. Hoagland, we are awfully 
poor. Will you come and be with us when father's body is brought 
home? The governor says we may have his body after he is hung." 

I was deeply moved to pity. I promised and made haste to the 
jail, where I found his father. 

He acknowledged that he must have murdered his wife, for the 
circumstances pointed that way, but he had not the slightest remem- 
brance of the deed. He said he was crazed with drink or he never 
would have committed the crime. He said : "My wife was a good 
woman, and faithful mother to my little children. Never did I dream 
that my hand could be guilty of such a crime." The man could face the 
penalty of the law bravely for his deed, but he broke down and cried 
as if his heart would break, when he thought of leaving his children 
in a destitute and friendless condition. I read and prayed with him and 
left him to his fate. 

The next morning I made my way to the miserable quarters of 
these children. I found three little girls upon a bed of straw in one 
corner of the room. They were clad in rags. They were beautiful girls 
had they had the proper care. They were expecting the body of their 
dead father, and between their cries and sobs they would say, "Papa 
was good, but whiskey did it." 

In a little time two strong officers came, bearing the body of the 
dead father in a rude pine box. They set it down on two old rickety 
stools. The cries of the children were so heartrending that they could 
not endure it, and made haste out of the room, leaving me alone with 
this terrible scene. 



322 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

r~ 

In a moment the manly boy nerved himself and said: "Come, 
sisters ; kiss papa's face before it is cold." They gathered about his 
face, smoothed it down with kisses, and between their sobs, cried out: 
"Papa was good, but whiskey did it." "Papa was good, but whiskey 
did it." 

I raised my heart to God and said: "O God, did I fight to save a 
country that would derive a revenue from a traffic that would make 
one scene like this possible?" In my heart I said: "In the whole 
history of this accursed traffic, there has not been enough revenue 
derived to pay for one such scene as this. The wife and mother mur- 
dered, the father hung, the children outraged, a home destroyed." I 
there promised my God that I would vote to save my country from the 
rule of the rum oligarchy. 

A system of government that derives its revenue from results such 
as are seen in this touching picture, must either change its course or 
die, unless God's law is a lie. — Alex. Hoagland in the Newsboys' Friend. 

BROKE HIS PLEDGE. 

A small brown hand held up a pledge-card wrapped up in a bit of 
tissue paper, and such a tone of misery, shame and deep despair rang 
in the words, that I hastened to say consolingly, "Never mind, Flash ; I 
will get you another card if you will be more careful." 

"But it's broke — the pledge is broke. I've been drinking." 

"Drinking, Flash !" I cried, hotly ; for this boy, vile, dirty, ignorant 
as he was, had a place very near my heart, and I had hoped much 
for him. 

Flash was one of the boys who had been brought into the mission, 
and, though small and thin for want of proper food, was bright, cheerful, 
truthful and noticeably quick, as to have earned for himself the name 
of "Flash" among the street comrades. 

As he stood leaning against the door in a hopeless way, I looked at 
him sharply and saw great red welts all along his neck and running 
down under his ragged collar. There were marks, too, on his hands, 
and a tangle of brown hair partly hid a dark line across his forehead. 

"Tell me about it, Flash," I said gently enough now. 

"It's nothing," said he, hesitatingly; "only I did mean to keep my 
word. You know, ma'am, that Billy and I live with father down the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 323 

alley there, and how father drinks and beats us when he chances to feel 
like it; and sometimes he brings the stuff home and tries to make us 
drink, but we never have since we promised till last night. He was 
powerfully bad then. We heard him cursing as he came up the stairs, 
and I'd just time to hide Billy before he came in. He had a big bottle 
full of something and made me bring a cup, and said that I should 
drink anyway. But I wouldn't 'a' drinked if he'd killed me, and he 
knew it, I guess, for he begun asking for Billy. I was hoping he 
wouldn't find him, but he did. I tell you I was afraid then. Billy's only 
six, but he's a hero. Father dragged him along by the collar and told 
him he had something good for him in the bottle. Billy told him that 
he knew what it was, and that he'd never drink it. Why, 'twould 'a' 
made your flesh creep to 'a' heard him go on then. But Billy never gave 
in. His face was white and his eyes were just like stars, and he 
wouldn't drink. 

Father choked him then till he was limp, and beat him till he 
couldn't stand it, and I told him I'd give up if he'd let Billy off. He 
made me drink ever so many times. He and I drank all there was in 
the bottle, and pretty soon he went to sleep on the floor; but my head 
didn't swim even. I picked Billy up and carried him away and hid 
him. I can take care of Billy and he needn't drink; but I promised 
mother I'd stick by father, and so I stays there. I wouldn't drink if I 
could help it, but my pledge is broke." 

As Flash stood twirling his old cap in his bruised hands and looked 
hopelessly out at his future, such a hatred sprang up in my heart against 
alcohol that I felt like calling on the whole temperance army to charge 
and charge and charge again on this most merciless tyrant. — Way of 
Faith. 

A FIVE-DOLLAR INVESTMENT. 

The following incident is one that offers inspiration and encourage- 
ment for those who are endeavoring to hold out to others a hand that 
is helpful. 

A dark-visaged, unkempt man, who had evidently been on a pro- 
tracted spree, but whose face retained some evidences of refinement, 
shuffled up to the desk of Stephen Merritt, in his New York office, one 
bright summer morning a little more than ten years ago. In his hand 



324 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

he carried a battered hat, but so much did he tremble from the effects 
of long abstinence from strong drink, that the hat fell from his grasp, 
as he stood waiting for the merchant to look up. A week's growth of 
beard gave his face a tramp-like appearance. 

"Mr. Merritt," he began, falteringly, "I have been told that you 
are a friend to the unfortunate " 

There was something in the tone of the speaker's voice that caused 
Mr. Merritt to stop writing and turn sharply. He looked the man over 
scrutinizingly. A pair of pathetic dark eyes looked appealingly, straight 
into his. The tramp had once been a gentleman — that was plain. 

"I am unfortunate; will you help me?" 

In his bluff way the philanthropist pretended to be angry at the 
suggestion, and exclaimed : 

"Not a cent for a drunkard ! I have all I can do to assist those who 
are worthy. How dare you ask me for money, when you know that 
you will go straight to a rum-shop with it?" 

"Try me," he replied, as he bit his lips ; "try me." 

Down into his vest pocket went the hand of the merchant, bringing 
forth a five-dollar bill. Handing it over, he said, earnestly: 

"I will try you ; but, if I am deceived, as I have so often " 

"You won't be, Mr. Merritt," interrupted the man; "you won't be. 
Your kindness will make a man of me." 

He grasped the hand of his benefactor and, in a choking voice, 
promised to reform, and let him know. 

It was late in the afternoon of the same day. The merchant- 
philanthropist was about to leave his office. He had been busy all 
day, partly with the demands of his business, and partly with the claims 
of the poor. A fine-looking man of about thirty-five was his last caller. 

"What can I do for you, sir?" Mr. Merritt asked. 

"I have called," said the stranger, "to show you I have kept my 
promise." 

"What promise? Who are you?" 

"Why, Mr. Merritt, don't you remember me? I called only this 
morning." 

"This morning! I never saw you before in all my life." 

A merry smile brightened the dark face of the caller. His clean- 
shaven features alone would have prevented recognition. But in 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 325 

addition to a shave, he had fresh linen, a well-blacked pair of shoes, 
plain but neat clothing, and a trim hat. These had worked a trans- 
formation in his appearance marvelous to behold. It required earnest 
assurance on his part to convince Merritt that his two callers were 
one and the same man. 

So delighted was the philanthropist with the result of his experiment, 
that he procured work for the man in a publisher's office, addressing 
envelopes at fifteen cents a hundred. 

"Do you know who that man is?" asked a visitor to the publishing 
house, as he noticed the quiet figure of the new mailing clerk. 

"No." 

"He is John G. Wooley, one of the most brilliant men of the West, 
a man of the highest education and mental power. As a lawyer in 
Minneapolis, he was easily the leader of the bar of his state, his practice 
netting him from twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars a year. But he 
fell, a victim of strong drink." 

The struggle upward was a bitter one for the reformed man, but it 
was brightened by love and helpfulness of true friends. Then, one 
Sunday afternoon, he made his first temperance speech at Cooper 
Union, New York. It was electrical. Thrilling as were the words to 
the auditors, the speech was destined to have a still more powerful 
effect upon the speaker. It opened up a new vista of religion to him. 
Strengthened by the consolations of religion, and encouraged by the 
promptings of his wife, of his friends, and of his own heart, Mr. 
Wooley resolved to devote his life to the work of saving others from 
the drink evil. His own reformation being permanent, his great talents 
began to find play. Within a year, there burst on the sky of temperance 
reform a star of the first magnitude, a man of such impassioned 
eloquence, that he swayed audiences as no temperance lecturer had 
done since the days of John B. Gough. 

One day a splendid-looking couple drove up to the office of Mr. 
Merritt, and alighted. The one was Mr. Wooley, the other his devoted 
wife, her face beaming with happiness. It was the anniversary of the 
day when the greenback had been given to the tramp. The interview 
that followed was very dramatic. When it was over, three people were 
wiping their eyes. 



326 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"I knew you would be glad to see the good your five-dollar bill 
has accomplished," said Mr. Wooley. 

"I'd sell out my business to-morrow," said the grizzled veteran, 
"if I could invest the money so it might bring as good returns." — Chris- 
tian Standard. 

THE MODERATE DRINKING HABIT HIS RUIN. 

The New York World thus tells the story of the downfall of a well- 
known New York bank clerk: 

Garvin R. Dick, formerly clerk of the check department of the 
Chase National Bank, sat on a bench in the room for visitors at the 
work-house on Blackwell's Island. He wore prison trousers, prison 
shoes and a prison hat. 

"Tippling brought me here," he said r "just a drink or two a day 
with a friend. That's what downed me. Moderate drinking is the most 
insidious form of indulgence. 

"It was moderate drinking that also brought my wife here. She 
had her circle of friends, and they had their social glass. She will agree 
with me that the hard drinker has not so much to fear as those who 
take a social glass regularly." 

Dick and his wife, whose maiden name was Gertrude Bancker, 
popular in the Harlem set, were taken to the Island at the same time, 
sentenced for six months because neither could give the required bond 
of $300. 

Friends of Dick who used to know him when he stood behind the 
grating of the Chase National and counted up the checks and classified 
them, would not have recognized in the thin-faced, white-haired, unshorn 
prisoner, feebly and penitently telling of his downfall, the same smiling, 
jovial and confident young man who was pointed out as a model to many 
of the subordinate clerks in the big bank. 

'I didn't bring my wife down with me. I didn't cause her to take 
up drinking," he said. "It was her circle of friends with whom she 
used to take a social glass when they came together, that caused her to 
be here with me. 

"I had no idea that I would ever be as low as this. I came to New 
York from New Brunswick, Canada, more than twenty-five years ago. 
I was barely more than a boy then, and I had hopes of accomplishing 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 327 

something in the big city. It was the habit of all the people in my 
Canadian neighborhood to take a glass of whisky when they wanted it. 
I thought, too, that I could drink like a gentleman and suffer no ill 
effects. I got a position twenty-three years ago with the bank as one 
of the clerks at fifteen dollars a week. I worked hard, and was shortly 
afterward advanced. Two years later I married and we were very happy 
together. 

"Whenever the boys would ask me out to have a drink, I would not 
refuse, but I was not what one might call, in the habit of drinking. 
I knew that I could stop at any time. 

"Mrs. Dick did not drink in those days. 

"By hard work, in a year or two I was advanced again, and we 
took a more pretentious home. I had several friends at the bank, but, 
of course, they would not endanger their position now by trying to do 
anything for me. You know how particular a bank is. 

"I suppose it must be the case with all drunkards, but the first 
thing I knew, I got to be so dependent upon my daily amount of 
stimulant that I would be nervous if I left off. In the meantime, I 
noticed that my wife also would ask for a drink before meals and before 
retiring. 

"She seemed to take to it at first to be congenial with me, but she 
told me she had learned to drink at a friend's house. I did not try to 
stop her, because I expected no ill effects. I always did my work 
regularly at the bank. The first intimation that anything was wrong 
came a year ago, when the surety company which protected my position 
went off my bond. 

"The bank, of course, notified me that I would have to leave. I 
got out. In the meantime I had saved up no money and had to borrow 
from friends. I thought there would be no trouble in getting a new place, 
but after a man gets to a certain age in New York, no business has any 
use for him, and it was then that I realized that I had cultivated the 
drink habit so far that I was permanently injured by it. 

"It was impossible for me to get any position. I got more dis- 
couraged and began to drink heavier. Mrs. Dick also began to drink 
more. From the tippler she soon was changed into the confirmed 
inebriate. 

"We are here, both of us, until next July, and we can both attribute 
our present state to the moderate drinking habit." 



328 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

CHANGE YOUR HITCHING POST. 

During some recent revival services in a western town, a young 
farmer named George Wilcox, living several miles in the country, came 
in every evening to attend the meetings, and became very deeply con- 
victed of sin. He was well liked by all his friends, and so much interest 
was manifested in his salvation that there was much joy when one 
evening toward the close of the meeting, he was happily converted. 

Young Mr. Wilcox was somewhat given to drink ; and being of a 
social nature and with no great force of character, though with the best 
of intentions, the saloon element of the town was in a fair way to drag 
him down to ruin. He did not drink much, but he stayed around the 
saloons and with that crowd far more than was good for him. He was 
moderately well to do, and had a fine team of horses and a good wagon ; 
and whenever he came to town on business, he hitched his team on a 
vacant lot near one of the saloons, which seemed a most fitting place, as 
he stayed there so much of his time. After he was converted, however, 
he never went around the saloons any more or associated with that 
crowd ; but through force of habit he still hitched his team at the same 
place on the unoccupied lot, where a number of posts had been set in 
the ground for that purpose. This he kept up for several months after 
his. conversion, though he never went into the near-by saloon. 

One Saturday afternoon, Deacon Hawkins, who lived in the country 
on the opposite side of town from Mr. Wilcox, met him in town for the 
first time after the young man's conversion, and found his team hitched 
near the saloon as usual. Deacon Hawkins was a white-haired old man 
with a very warm heart, a man who felt a deep interest in the welfare 
of every member of the church, and especially in all young men who had 
recently begun the Christian life. He had a fatherly way, which made 
him loved by all. Deacon Hawkins had not been able to attend the 
meeting much, owing to serious sickness in his family and also because 
he lived so far away. He was not there the night George Wilcox was 
converted, but had heard of it. He also knew that the young farmer was 
impulsive and easily influenced by whatever crowd he happened to be in ; 
so the first thing he said to him after gripping his hand warmly, was ; 
"Well, George, I understand that you have accepted Christ and joined 
the church, and that you are living a better life now." 

"Yes, sir," said Wilcox, earnestly; "I am." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 329 

"And I understand that you have quit the saloon gang, and that 
you never go about them." 

"Yes, sir." 

"But I see, George, that you hitch your team in the same old place." 

"Why, yes," said Wilcox, in some surprise, "I do. It's a good place 
to hitch, and no harm can come from that, can there?" and he looked his 
question as he asked it. 

"Well, George, I am a great deal older man than you and have had 
much experience, and you will pardon me, I know, if I make a suggestion 
to you as a brother, out of my wider Christian experience. No matter 
how strong you think you are, take my advice, and at once change your 
hitching post." 

The advice so lovingly given was followed by the young man within 
a very few minutes, and never again did he hitch near the saloon. While 
he might have held out firm and true all his life without making the 
change, yet no one will deny that he was far safer in the end, following 
the advice of the deacon. 

And in the same spirit I would say to all who are tempted, no 
matter how firm you think you can be, no matter how you scorn to 
believe you could be influenced by evil companions and evil surroundings, 
change your hitching post. And I am persuaded that those who think 
themselves strongest, need such advice more than those who feel their 
weakness. It is always safest to stay as far from temptation as possible. 
If you have recently given your life to Christ and broken with vicious 
companions and turned your back upon former wicked ways, the farther 
you keep from these old associations the surer you are to remain firm. 
Even if the change in you amounts to no more than turning over a new 
leaf or forming good resolutions, still the wisest thing to do is to change 
your hitching post. — Isaac Motes, in Epworth Era. 

A GIRL DRUNKARD. 

The superintendent of a New York home recently related the story 
of her own experience in rescue work, so wonderful and so encouraging 
to wretched victims of sin, that it ought to be made public. The story, 
in substantially her own language, was as follows : 

* "I was sent for one morning, many years ago, by one of the judges 
of the court, who had before him a girl sixteen years of age. The girl's 



330 STORIES OF HELL/S COMMERCE 

father had caused her arrest and had appealed to the court to sentence 
her to some home as an incorrigible. 

"The history of the girl was this : At twelve years of age she had 
been put to service in the dining room of a saloon as a waitress. Her 
duties required her to serve liquors, and she acquired a passion for drink 
and became a drunkard. 

"I never saw a human being that loved liquor as she did. She 
could drink down a glass of clear whiskey with the greatest relish, and 
she had absolutely no control over her appetite. At sixteen she was a 
confirmed drunkard and street walker. She was devoid of any moral 
principle and had a perfectly insane temper. 

"The judge heard the case and sentenced her to the home of which 
I was superintendent. When she learned her destiny, she flew into an 
uncontrollable rage. She screamed and fought and cursed like a demon. 
She had to be taken to the home by main force, and when she got there, 
we were at our wits' end what to do with her. She was perfectly law- 
less, desperately ugly, and her manner was more like a demon than a 
human being. We tried all sorts of treatment for her; we tried to win 
her love; we tried to reason with her; then we tried punishing her — in 
fact, we exhausted our resources all to no purpose. For three years that 
girl kept our home in a turmoil. Nothing we could do had any effect 
upon her. She attended our gospel services, but to all appearances they 
had no influence over her. 

"At the end of three years a change came over her. She began to 
pray and to believe in God. After that we had her under control, we 
sent her out to service in a Christian family on a farm in a neighboring 
state. She was a small girl, not very strong, but she took hold of the 
heavy work of a servant's place in a country home with an amazing vim. 
It seemed as if she couldn't do enough for her employers. 

"But the work was too much for her, and after the first year she 
returned to us quite worn out and broken down. Then she took up fancy 
work and became an expert. The finest kind of work seemed to come 
perfectly natural to her. 

"When the term of her sentence expired, at twenty-one years of 
age, she left our home and supported herself by doing the fancy work 
learned in the home. She was then one of the most lovable, sweet- 
mannered, kind-hearted, gentle girls that I ever knew. We all loved her, 
and she used to come and instruct other girls in fancy work. She had 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 331 

grown to be a very handsome girl, with a fair complexion and a beautiful 
face. 

"A young man out of an excellent family in our city became 
interested in her, and finally married her, and took her to his father's 
home, where she was admitted on equal terms with the other sons and 
daughters, of whom there were several. She became a favorite with 
them all, and the father-in-law speaks of her endearingly as his 'little kid/ 

"You asked me if I knew of any cases of girls rising from a life of 
shame to respectable womanhood, and my answer is this true story of a 
girl who is now the mother of a dear little girl, and who is one of the 
loveliest Christian characters of my acquaintance. It is one of many 
evidences that there is no limit to the power and grace of God. 

"Jesus is 'able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by 
Him.' What a refuge the Lord is to every sinner who will flee to Him 
for help." — National Advocate. 

WHO'S TO BLAME? 

Two men were shot here one night by a policeman, one of them was 
hurled into eternity without a moment's warning, the other died a few 
days afterwards. Some drunken men were fighting and were very 
riotous, on an interurban car. The conductor telegraphed to the police 
at Carlinville, to take care of these men when the car arrived, which 
resulted as above stated. 

Some want to lay the blame on the policeman, but if these men had 
not been drunk there would have been no cause for arrest. Drink was 
the cause. The saloon-keeper sold the drink, and the people who had an 
opportunity last November of voting the saloons out of that neighbor- 
hood, voted to give them license. Who is to blame? 

The voters will have an opportunity to vote against this cursed evil. 
There is one party, and only one, that advocates its total abolition. Will 
you feel clear before God if you neglect to cast your ballot against this 
awful iniquity? — Selected. 

THE SALOON-KEEPER AND HIS CHILD. 

I remember when I first began to work for the Lord fifteen or six- 
teen years ago, there was a Boston business man who was converted 



332 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

there and stayed there three months, and when leaving, he said to me 
that there was a man living on such a street in whom he was very much 
interested, and whose boy was in the high school, and he had said that he 
had two brothers and a little sister who didn't go anywhere to Sabbath 
school, because their parents would not let them. 

This gentleman said, "I wish you would go round and see them." 
Well, I went and found that the parents lived in a drinking saloon, and 
that the father kept the bar. I stepped up to him and told him what I 
wanted, and he said he would rather have his sons become drunkards, 
and his daughter a harlot, than have them go to our schools. I thought 
it looked pretty dark, and he was pretty bitter to me, but I went a 
second time, thinking I might find him in a better humor. He ordered 
me out again. I went a third time and found him in a better humor. 
He said, "You are talking too much about the Bible. Well, I will tell 
you what I will do; if you will teach them something reasonable, like 
'Paine's Age of Reason,' they may go." Then I talked further to him, 
and finally he said, "If you will read Paine's book, I will read the New 
Testament." Well, to get hold of him, I promised, and he got the best 
of the bargain. We exchanged books, and that gave me a chance to 
call again and talk with that family. One day he said, "Young man, you 
have talked so much about church, now you can have a church down 
here. " What do you mean ? " " Why, I will invite some friends, and you 
can come down and preach to them; not that I believe a word you say, 
but I do it to see if it will do us chaps any good." " Very well," I said ; 
" now let us have it distinctly understood that we have a certain definite 
time." He told me to come at 11 o'clock, saying, " I want you to under- 
stand that you are not to do all the preaching." " How is that ? I shall 
want to talk some, and also my friends." I said, " Supposing we have it 
understood that you are to have forty minutes and I fifteen, is that fair?" 
Well, he thought it was fair. He was to have the first forty and I the last 
fifteen minutes. I went down, and behold, the saloon-keeper wasn't there. 
I thought perhaps he had backed out, but I found that the reason was, 
he had found that his saloon was not large enough to hold all his friends, 
and he had gone to a neighbor's whither I went and found two rooms 
filled. 

There were atheists, infidels, and scoffers there. 

I had taken a little boy with me, thinking he might aid me. The 
moment I got in, they plied me with all sorts of questions, but I said I 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 333 

hadn't come to hold any discussion that they had been discussing for 
years and had reached no conclusion. They took up the forty-five min- 
utes of time talking", and the result was there were not two who could 
agree. Then came my turn. I said, "We always open our meetings 
with prayer; let us pray." I prayed, and thought perhaps some one 
else would pray before I got through. After I finished the little boy 
prayed. I wish you could have heard him. He prayed to God to have 
mercy upon those men who were talking so against His Beloved Son. 
His voice sounded more like an angel's than a human voice. After we 
got up, I was going to speak, but there was not a dry eye in the 
assembly. 

One after another went out, and the man I had been after for months, 
and sometimes it had looked pretty dark, came, and putting his hands 
on my shoulder, with tears streaming down his face, said, "Mr. Moody, 
you can have my children go to your Sunday-school." 

The next Sunday they came, and after a few months the oldest boy, 
a promising young man, then in the high school, came upon the plat- 
form, and with his chin quivering and the tears in his eyes, said, "I wish 
to ask these people to pray for me ; I want to become a Christian." 

jjod heard and answered our prayers for him. In all my acquain- 
tances, I don't know a man whom it seemed more hopeless to reach. I 
believe if we lay ourselves out for the work, there is not a man in this 
city but can be reached and saved. I don't care who he is ; if we go in 
the name of our Master, and persevere until we succeed, it will not be 
long before Christ will bless us, no matter how hard their heart is. 

"We shall reap if we faint not." I didn't have a warmer friend in 
Chicago ; he was true to me. — D. L. Moody. 

THAT BOY. 

Do you see that boy? Look at him; see his shabby clothing, worn 
hat and scufly shoes. You notice his face is bright, but has care and 
purpose in it. You notice he is moving rapidly, with intent on getting 
to some given point, manifest in every motion of his little frame. 

Let me tell you about that boy. His father has been dead some 
years. He is the oldest of five children, mere tots the others are, and he 
is working like a little Turk to help his mother support them. He never 
loses a day. He never wastes a nickle. He hurries by fruit stands and 



334 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

candy stores and his eyes sweep over the good things that children like 
so much, but hastens on. The scant earnings of his faithful week's toil 
are gripped in that hand in his pocket. He will give every cent of it to 
his mother and look up into her face with a look of love and hope, and 
regret that it is not more, and will promise that it shall be more when he 
gets larger. How his great, bright eyes talk to her! How his loving 
heart goes out to her ! 

Talk about heroes — that boy is a true hero. Do you know I love 
that little lad with all my heart? I would love to give him a little lift. 
Let him work on, it will make a man of him; but cheer him up with a 
good word. Slip a nice book into his hand for a Christmas gift. Let 
him feel that he has a friend who is interested in him. Find him a better 
job if you can, and get him out to Sabbath school and church. Give him 
sympathy. Don't make a fuss over him or flatter him ; let him fight his 
battle out, but slip a little ammunition to him. 

But did you know there is a man after this boy? He will take that 
money out of his pocket if he can ; he will destroy his love for his 
mother, harden his heart and blast his life. Do you know who that man 
is? I will tell you: He is the saloon-keeper. Think of it! Could any- 
thing be more vile? Say, remember this saloon-keeper at the November 
election, and put one in against him. — Selected by Church Advocate. 

JIM'S PRACTICAL ADDRESS. 

One day a young man not far from thirty-five arose in the meeting 
to speak. He was prematurely old; his face was scarred and furrowed, 
and he was bruised and mangled by the old serpent, the snake of the 
still. He had signed the pledge on his knees. God had helped him to 
keep it for three months. He said : 

"On coming to this meeting, I passed some of my old resorts in 
125th street. I was spied out by a young fellow with whom I had had 
many a carouse. He exclaimed, 'Hallo, Jim; they say you have got 
religion ; I'd like to know what religion has done for you !' 

"I replied: 'Go ask my wife! She will tell you what a brute I 
was, and what a drunkard ; what a terror I was to my children, and how 
I bruised her ; how my small earnings went to the till of the rum-seller. 
There was no meal in the barrel; no fire in the stove; no food on the 
table. My little girl had no shoes, and cried from hunger and cold. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 335 

Many and many a stormy and bitter night my wife had watched outside 
the bar-room to take me home, lest I should perish with the cold. She 
did this, though she knew I would curse her and beat her when I got 
home." 

"Ask my wife, and she will say: 'What has religion done for him? 
Walk in and look. Our home isn't elegant; but it is comfortable. Jim 
don't carry his money to the saloon now ; he brings it home every Satur- 
day night. He's a good worker when drink is out of him ; and he makes 
us very comfortable indeed. The little girl whom Jim loves so well 
watches for his coming at the window, and doesn't run and hide herself 
when she hears his footsteps. He doesn't swear over our food now ; but 
asks God's blessing on it. Instead of putting a drunken, brutal man to 
bed, with profanity and oaths, he says : 'Read us a little bit of God's 
Word before we go to, sleep/ 'Yes, that's what religion has done for 
him/ " — Selected by Vanguard. 

DID NOT LIKE THE CROWD. 

The Lewiston Journal, a Maine paper, tells a story of the times of 
the great temperance agitation in 1884. In those days practically every 
retail merchant in the country kept liquor for sale or to give away. In 
a Kennebec village an old grocer, otherwise a reputable man, derived a 
considerable part of his income from the sale of rum. 

The temperance revival had come to this village, and a question of 
action, friendly or unfriendly to the liquor traffic, had arisen in the 
town meeting. A division was demanded, and those in favor of the 
traffic went to one side of the town hall, and those opposed to it, to the 
other. 

The respectable grocer referred to, watched this process, and saw, 
evidently to his surprise, that the people to whom he had been dealing 
out liquor for years were not as good-looking as the people on the other 
side of the hall. Finally he arose and joined the opponents of the traffic. 

"What are you over there for?" some one asked him. "Are you 
opposed to the sale of intoxicating liquors?" 

"N0-0 " 

"Then that's your side over there." 

The old grocer looked around angrily at the men on the other side 



336 STORIES OF HELL'S CO MMERCE 

and replied : "You don't suppose I'm going over there with that crowd 
of red noses, do you?" 

His view of his customers, all in a bunch, had made a temperance 
man of him. 

If the men who vote upon the question of license or no license in the 
various towns and cities could only have a photograph of the victims of 
drink that stand on the other side of the line in the fight, they might 
say: "I am ashamed of such company, and will not keep it, nor will I 
be in the least degree responsible for the conditions that are expressed in 
their appearance." — Selected by Church Advocate. 

THE ENGINEER'S REMEDY 

My engineer was a gray-haired, thick-set man of fifty, quiet and 
unobtrusive, and deeply in love with his beautiful machine. He had 
formerly run a locomotive, and now took a stationary engine because 
he could get no employment on the railroads. A long talk with the 
superintendent of the road from which he had been removed revealed 
only one fault in the man's life ; he loved strong drink. 

"He is," said my informant, "as well posted on steam as any man 
on the road; he worked up from train-boy to fireman, from fireman to 
engineer, has rendered us valuable services, has saved many lives by 
his quickness and bravery, but he cannot let liquor alone, and for that 
reason we have discharged him." 

In spite of this discouraging report, I hired the man. During the 
first week of his stay I passed through the engine room many times a 
day, in the course of my factory route, but never found ought amiss. 
The great engine ran as smoothly and as quietly as if its bearings were 
set. in velvet ; the steel cross-head, the crank-shaft and the brass oil- 
cups, reflected the morning sun like mirrors; no speck of dust found 
lodging in the room. In the fire-room the same order and neatness 
prevailed, the steam gauge showed even pressure, the water gauges 
were always just right, and our daily report showed that we were 
burning less coal than formerly. The most critical inspector failed to 
find anything about the engine or boilers that showed the faintest 
symptoms of neglect or carelessness. 

Three weeks passed. The man who had been recommended as 
"good for five days' work and then two days' drink" had not swerved 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 337 

a hair's-breadth from his duty. The gossips were beginning to notice 
and comment on the strange affair. 

"I should like to speak with you a moment, sir/' said he one 
morning, as I passed through his sanctum. 

"Well, John, what now?" I said, drawing out my note-bock. 
"Cylinder oil all gone?" 

"It's about myself," he replied. I motioned him to proceed. 

"Thirty-two years ago I drank my first glass of liquor," said the 
engineer, "and for the past ten years, up to the last month, no week 
has passed without a Saturday night drunk. During those years I was 
not blind to the fact that appetite was geting a frightful hold on me. 
At times my struggle against the longing for stimulant were earnest; 
my employers once offered me a thousand dollars if I would not touch 
liquor for three months, but I lost it; I tried all sorts of antidotes, and 
all failed. My wife died praying that I might be rescued, yet my 
promises to her were broken. within two days. I signed pledges, and 
joined societies, but appetite was still my master. My employers 
reasoned with me, discharged me, forgave me; but all to no effect. I 
could not stop, and I knew it. When I came to work for you I did not 
expect to stay a week; I was nearly done for; but now!" and the old 
man's face lighted up with an unspeakable joy, "in this extremity, when 
I was ready to plunge into hell for a glass of rum, I found a sure 
remedy! I am saved from my appetite?" 

"What is your remedy?" 

The engineer took up an open Bible that lay, face down, on the 
window ledge and read, "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from 
all sin." — Selected by Gospel Herald. 

THE RUM-SELLER'S DREAM. 

"Well, wife, this is too horrid ! I cannot continue this business 
any longer." 

"Why, dear, what is the matter now?" 

"O such a dream, such rattling of dead men's bones, and such an 
army of starved mortals, so many murders, such cries, and shrieks, and 
yells, and such horrid gnashing of teeth, and glaring eyes, and such 
a blazing fire, and such devils — oh! I cannot endure it. My hair 



338 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

stands on end, and I am so filled with horror I can scarcely speak. Oh, 
if I ever sell rum again!" 

"My dear, you are frightened." 

"Yes, indeed, I am ; another such night will I not pass for worlds." 

My dear, perhaps " 

"Oh, don't talk to me. I will have nothing more to do with rum, 
anyhow. Wife, poor old Tom Wilson came to me with his throat 
cut from ear to ear, and such a horrible gash, and it was so hard for 
him to speak and so much blood; and says he, 'See here, Joe, the result 
of rum-selling.' My blood chilled at the sight, and just then the house 
seemed to turn bottom up, and then the earth opened, and a little imp 
took me by the hand, saying, 'Follow me.' As I went grim devils held 
out to me cups of liquid fire, saying, 'Drink: this.' I dared not refuse. 
Every draught set me in a rage. Serpents hissed on each side, and from 
above reached down their heads and whispered, 'Rum-seller.' On and 
on the imp led me through the narrow pass. All at once he paused 
and said, 'Are you dry?' 'Yes,' I replied. Then he struck a trap-door 
with his foot, and down, down we went, and legions of fiery serpents 
followed us, whispering, 'Drunkard, drunkard.' At length we stopped 
again, and the imp asked me as before, 'Are you dry?' 'Yes,' I replied. 

He then touched a spring, a door flew open, there were thousands 
of worn-out rum-drinkers, crying most piteously, 'Rum, rum, give me 
some rum.' When they saw me they stopped a moment to see who I 
was. Then the imp cried out, so as to make all shake again, 'Rum-seller.' 
And hurling me in, shut the door. For a moment they fixed their 
ferocious eyes upon me, and then uttered' the yell, 'Damn him,' — which 
filled me with terror. I awoke. There, wife, dream or no dream, I will 
never sell another drop of the infernal stuff!" 

"Woe to him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness, and his 
chambers by wrong." "Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, 
.that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken. " — Pentecost Herald. 

INGERSOLL'S AND BUCKLEY'S VIEW OF A WHISKEY 

BOTTLE. 

A young friend of Colonel Ingersoll was ill with pneumonia and his 
physician had prescribed whisky. The colonel happened to have or 
hand some very fine old bourbon, and sent a bottle of it to his young 
friend with a letter, in which he said: 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 339 

"I send you some of the most wonderful whisky that ever drove the 
skeleton from a feast or painted landscapes in the brain of man. It is 
the mingled souls of wheat and corn. In it you will find the sunshine 
and the shadow that chased each other over the billowy fields; the 
breath of June; the carol of the lark; the dews of night; the wealth of 
summer and autumn's rich content — all golden with imprisoned light. 
Drink it, and you will hear the voices of men and maidens singing the 
'Harvest Home/ mingled with the laughter of children. Drink it, and 
you will feel within your blood the star-lit dawns, the dreamy, tawny 
dusks of many perfect days. For forty years this liquid joy has been 
within the happy staves of oak, longing to touch the lips of men." 

Dr. Buckley's paraphrase of Ingersoll's letter on whisky : 
"I send you some of the most wonderful whisky that ever brought 
a skeleton into the closet or painted scenes of lust and bloodshed in the 
brain of man. It is the ghost of wheat and corn crazed by the loss of 
their natural bodies. In it you will find a transient sunshine chased by 
a shadow as cold as arctic midnight, in which the breath of June grows 
icy and the carol of the lark gives place to the foreboding cry of the 
ravens. Drink it, and you shall have woe, sorrow, babbling and wounds 
without cause ; your eyes shall behold strange women and your heart 
shall utter perverse things. Drink it, and you shall hear the voices of 
demons, shrieking women, wailing and worse than orphaned children 
mourning the loss of a father who yet lives. Drink it deep and long, and 
serpents shall hiss about your neck and seize you with their fangs, for 
'at last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.' For forty 
years this liquid death has been within the staves of oak — harmless 
then as pure water. I send it to you that you may 'put an enemy in 
your mouth to steal away your brains,' and yet I shall call myself your 
friend." — Selected, 

CLOSED ON ACCOUNT OF DEATH. 

A young man, the proprietor of a saloon, wine-room and some 
adjacent disreputable houses, was seemingly doing a thriving business 
along his line. Time and again, as we saw him dressed up with his 
white vest, gold chain, etc., getting hold of young men, young women 
and even children, our very soul burned within us, for we thought of the 



340 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

many he was influencing in the downward way. How often, as we 
passed his saloon on the way to and from the mission, did we, like 
Lot in Sodom, vex our souls with the thought of the unlawful deeds 
performed under his direction ! All unexpectedly we had an opportunity 
of warning this man of the awful danger awaiting those who continue in 
sin, for he, with a number of other saloon devotees and disreputable 
people attended a funeral where we were called upon to talk. How 
thankful we were that this special saloonkeeper was there to hear the 
truth ! but, alas, instead of heeding this warning cry, which, so far as 
we know, was his last call of mercy, he still continued his awful business 
— yet only for a short time. In his own saloon, at about one o'clock 
one morning, this saloonkeeper, whom we believed to be doing more 
harm, reaching more young men and women and leading them on in sin 
than any other young man around here, was suddenly struck on the head 
with a billiard cue by an angry man, and knocked perfectly senseless. 
After being taken to the hospital he died without recovering con- 
sciousness. 

The lights in the saloon windows were turnea low, the token of 
mourning was on the door, and a sign there read, "Closed on account 
of death." The curtains were drawn for a few days, but before the 
young man was laid away (His brother came and took the body to 
Iowa for interment.) the lights were shining out from the saloon, and 
revelry began. Soon the music and other evident signs told of the 
damnable work progressing behind the screens of that awful den of 
iniquity. 

A few years of putting the bottle to his neighbors' lips, a few years 
of leading young men and women on in the broad way, a few paltry 
dollars to spend' in the devil's service — yes, just a few years down 
here to curse humanity — but a never-ending eternity to wail with the 
lost and lament over his failure to heed that last warning cry, and over 
the many he led on toward perdition! Did it pay? Could this same 
young man who was so heartily engaged in the saloon work when 
suddenly killed, speak back from that lone land of dark despair, he would 
doubtless be earnestly warning men and women of the awful, irretriev- 
able loss connected with this abominable business. 

We dare say that on the last great day, when the books are 
opened, many will stand aghast at the appalling results of this licensed 
abomination — this mother of harlots — which is capturing so many 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 341 

of our brightest boys and girls and training them for lives of unmention- 
able shame. If those already tainted by this saloon leprosy were, like 
the lepers of Bible times, compelled to cry out, "Unclean ! unclean !" what 
a mournful, blood-curdling wail would sweep over our land to-day ! 
Better, far better, could we afford to have the physical fingers, toes and 
limbs of our young people drop off from the effects of that incurable 
disease than to have them robbed of purity, self-respect, noble manhood 
and womanhood and heaven at last! 

Thank God that so many are saying, with united voice, "The saloon 
must go !" How soon it must go, and how soon the boys and girls of 
our land will be protected from this great menace to society, will depend, 
to a great extent, upon the votes of the professed Christians of this 
boasted land of the free. — Olive Branch. 

STOPPED THE TRAIN THREE TIMES. 

There is no argument that is more frequently made by the man 
who indulges in intoxicating liquors than that of personal liberty. If a 
man wants to drink, that is his own affair, and for any one to try to 
deprive him from that privilege is to trespass on personal rights. 

This, of course, sounds plausible, and is liable to cause some of the 
very elect to stumble. It would be all very well if a man lived unto 
himself alone. If he were merely a huge drinking tube, if no one 
depended upon him, if he were not a member of a complicated social 
structure, such an argument might hold. But — well, we are all familiar 
with the responsibilities of father and of citizen as affected and 
jeopardized by the liquor traffic. The other day there occurred an 
incident that presents an argument from an economic standpoint. 

Up in the central part of New Hampshire there is a little town of 
fifteen hundred inhabitants that voted "yes" at the last election, and 
since that time the place has been the Mecca of drinkers. None of the 
large places in the immediate vicinity, nor for fifty miles around, for 
that matter, went for license. Hence, wholesale liquor places, the bottle 
seller and the retailer all moved to this town. And drunks have gone 
there whenever they desired to "enjoy" themselves. The town, to 
paraphrase an old dictum, has been butchered to make a drunkard's 
holiday. But a man can drink if he wants to, says the advocate of 
license. It is his personal right. Look here ! 



342 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

The other day when the northbound passenger train was going 
through the limits of the town in question, the engineer, who is himself 
a Christian man, was obliged to stop his engine three times because of 
drunks. How did it happen? Why, he looked ahead as he drove his 
engine along, to see if there were obstacles on the track, and three times 
within the limits of that town he saw, lying across the rails, the forms 
of poor drunken individuals. To save ther lives he must stop the 
express train, and have some one go ahead and remove the bodies from 
the tracks. 

Personal liberty ! Has a man a right to put himself in such a 
condition that he will hold up two or three hundred people who are 
traveling across the country? The United States, mail, the express 
companies' business, traveling salesmen, for great concerns — everything 
must stop, for there is a drunkard on the track ! That is personal liberty 
gone mad. — Selected by Church Advocate. 

THE SALOON. 

A few years ago a country boy, contrary to the wishes of his good 
mother, came to Danville, Va., and entered the saloon business. The 
memory of home and the prayers of his mother set his conscience on fire. 
He drank liquor to drown his conscience, and continued the wicked 
business. On he went in rebellion against his mother and his God, 
drinking and selling liquor. Fearful spells of delirium would come at 
the end of his long sprees. When he was twenty-three years old, in an 
awful spell of delirium tremens, he crawled behind his bed ; his friends 
were unable to hold him in bed, and over next to the wall behind his 
bed, mixing drinks in his delirium, he died — fulfilling the prophecy, 
"Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink !" — Stories and Parables. 

DRINKING UP FARMS. 

The Rev. John F. Hill, in the Presbyterian Banner, gives a graphic 
illustration of the waste caused by intemperance. He says to the tippler : 
"My homeless friend, with the cromatic nose, while you are stirring up 
the sugar in a ten-cent glass of gin, let me give you a fact to wash down 
with it. You say you have longed for years for the free, independent life 
of the farmer, but have never been able to get enough of money together 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 343 

to buy a farm. But this is just where you are mistaken. For several 
years you have been drinking a good improved farm at the rate of 100 
square feet at a gulp. If you doubt this statement, figure it out yourself. 
An acre of land contains 43,560 square feet. Estimating, for convenience, 
the land at $43.56 per acre, you will see that it brings the land to just 
one mill per square foot. Now, pour down the fiery dose and imagine 
that you are swallowing a strawberry patch. Call in five of your friends 
and have them gulp down that 500-foot garden. Get on a prolonged 
spree some day and see how long a time it requires to swallow a pasture 
large enough to feed a cow. Put down that glass of gin, there's dirt, 
worth $43.56 per acre." 

A TEMPERANCE COAT. 

It was a bitter winter's night that Mr. Pearse had taken a cab from 
a London suburb, and on reaching home bade the driver come in and 
get something warm and comfortable, but non-intoxicating. He noticed 
that "cabby" had no overcoat, and inquired how it was that he was so 
insufficiently clad. The man explained his poverty, and Mr. Pearse 
said: "Well, now, I've got a coat upstairs that would suit you. But 
before I give it to you, I'm bound to tell you that there is something very 
peculiar about that coat, and it is right I should explain it to you before 
you put it on." 

"What's that, sir?" said the man, considerably mystified, and not 
knowing whether he might not find it wise to decline the mysterious 
garment. 

Said Mr. Pearse, solemnly : "That coat never had a glass of beer or 
spirits inside of it from the day it was made until now. I want you to 
promise me as long as you wear that coat you will let 'the drink' alone." 

"All right, sir," said cabby, holding out his hand; "all right, sir, 
I will not upset the coat by putting drink inside of it." 

Many months afterwards Mr. Pearse met the same man again, and 
learned that he had kept to his bargain, and that the coat had never 
been disgraced by drink. — Selected by God's Revivalist. 

THE BOLD APPRENTICE. 

A little fellow who had been brought up a staunch teetotaler, was 
about to be apprenticed. The foreman offered him a glass of beer. The 



344 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

little fellow said, "I never touch that stuff." "Hello, youngster," said 
the foreman, "we never have teetotalers here." "If you have me you'll 
have one," returned the boy. The foreman said: "There's only one 
master here. You'll either have this glass of beer inside or outside." 
The boy said: "You can please yourself; I brought my clean jacket 
with me and a good character ; you may spoil my jacket, but you shan't 
spoil my character. "-Way of Faith. 

JACK AND HIS SHIPMATES. 

A young sailor boy being strongly solicited by his shipmates to 
join them in drinking "a cheerful glass," gave the following account of 
his early life : 

"My story is a very short one, and I can tell it in a few words. From 
the time of my earliest childhood I never knew what it was to have a 
happy home. My father was a drunkard ! Once he had been a good 
man and a good husband, but rum ruined all his manhood. I can 
remember how cold and cheerless was our home. We had no fire, no 
food, no clothes, no joy, nothing but misery and woe ! My poor 
mother used to clasp me to her bosom to keep me warm; and once — 
once, I remember, when her very tears froze on my cheek! Oh, how 
my mother prayed for her husband; and I, who could but just prattle, 
learned to pray too. When I grew older I had to go out and beg 
bread. All cold and shivering I waded through the deep snow, with 
my clothes in tatters and my feet almost bare ; and I saw other children 
dressed warmly and comfortably, and I knew they were happy, for 
they laughed and sang as they bounded along toward school. I knew 
that their fathers were no better than mine had been once, and would 
be again if rum were not in his way. But its power was upon him, and 
though he often tried, he did not escape. 

"Time passed on until I was eight years old, and those eight years 
brought such sorrow and suffering as I hope I may never experience 
again. At length, one cold morning in the dead of winter, my father 
was not at home. He had not been there through the night. My 
mother sent me to the tavern to see if I could find him. I had gone 
half the way when I saw something in the snow by the side of the 
road. I stopped, and a shudder ran through me ; it looked like a human 
form. I went up to it and turned the head over and brushed the snow 
from the face. It was my father; he was stiff and cold. I laid my 



•3 
B 

a. 




STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 345 

hand upon his pale brow, and it was like solid marble. He was dead ! 

"I went to the tavern and told the people what I had found, and 
the landlord sent two of his men to carry the frozen body home. O ship- 
mates ! I cannot tell you how my mother wept and groaned. The two 
men went away and left the body still on the floor, and then my mother 
wished me to come and kneel by her side. I did so. 'My tmild,' she 
said to me, and the big tears rolling down her cheeks, 'you know what 
has caused all this. This man was once as noble and happy and true as 
man can be, but oh, see he has been stricken down ! Promise me, my 
child, O promise here before God and your dead father, and your 
broken-hearted mother, that you will never, never, touch a single drop 
of the fatal poison that has brought us all this misery/ 

"O, shipmates! I did promise, then and there, all that my mother 
asked, and to this moment that promise has never been broken. My 
father was buried, and some good neighbors helped us through the 
winter. When the next spring came I could work, and earn something 
for my mother. At length I found a chance to ship, and did so, and 
every time I go home I have some money for her. Not for the wealth 
of the world would I break the pledge I gave my mother and my God 
on the dark, cold morning. Perhaps you have no mothers ; and if you 
have, they may not look to you for support, for I know you too well to 
believe that either of you would bring down a loving mother's gray 
hairs in sorrow to the grave. That is all, shipmates. Let me go now, 
for I do not believe that you will again urge the wine-cup upon me." 

His shipmates, deeply affected by their comrade's stirring recital 
of the evils resulting from indulging in strong drink, resolved to abstain 
in the future from the intoxicating cup, and, persevering in their good 
resolutions, became respectable and useful citizens. — Way of Faith. 

WHO KILLED THE BOY? 

"A boy is found dead at the foot of a stairway, or below a bridge, 
with a letter from his mother, and a stained photograph of a sweet, 
patient face in his pocket. He is known to have been alive and well 
and drunk at midnight. 'Who killed this boy?' cries the coroner, and 
we, from the thick cover, pipe like a quail, 'Bob White, Bob White.' 
Bob White is the saloonkeeper; and when accused, he says, and truly, 
'The Mayor gave me leave,!; and we pipe up the Mayor, who defends 



346 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

himself by saying, 'The Legislature bade me.' Then we flutter about the 
Legislature, which answers, and truly, T am the voice of the people 
crying in the government: Prepare ye the way of the liquor traffic; 
make its path straight and respectable — or expensive, which is the 
same thing/ So the coroner, the judge, the Legislature, and the voter 
play blindman's buff with murderers, and Christian men are trying to 
draw the ark of God in government, with a license and an indictment, 
driven tandem. For license for liquor-sellers and indictments for liquor 
murder, run alike — 'in the name of the people, and of the common- 
wealth' — and, for the purpose of liquor trials, a criminal court, instead 
of being a place where justice is judiciously dispensed, is become a place 
where justice is judiciously dispensed with." 

The wise man believes the woes of God against high license. "Woe 
to him that buildeth a town with blood and establisheth a city by 

iniquity woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that 

puttest thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken." (Hab. 2:12, 15.) — 
John G. Woolley. 

THE ROOT BEER FRAUD. 

"Let me give you some nice root beer. There is no alcohol in it, 
you know." 

"No, I do not know. How do you know?" 

"Why, that is what it says on the circular." 

"Do you believe all you read about patented stuffs ?" 

"Well, no. The fact is, I never looked into this matter." 

"But we ought to know what we take, and we want no alcohol. 
Shall we examine this?" 

"Yes, please. Let's see how to examine." 

"What are the directions for making root beer?" 

"Use water, sweetening and the extract of herbs in the bottle, yeast 
being added to make it effervesce." 

"Yes, and the yeast fermenting breaks up the sugar, every particle 
of which forms a particle of the gas that causes the effervesence, and 
at the same time a particle of alcohol that remains behind in the beer, 
causing the tingle, when drank. Very few care for the beer without the 
tingle." 

"This kind can be taken without fermentation." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 347 

"Yes, this is the kind that shows the largest alcohol flame in the 
testing apparatus. They all show some. A druggist said they would 
not keep without alcohol." 

"But really it cannot contain much alcohol. The best men in the 
place, men that ought to know, recommend it to the boys to take the 
place of alcoholic drinks." 

"Similar men might be quoted as saying that wine and beer drinking 
should be encouraged in order to do away with stronger drinks. Even 
the best people need to study in order to be sure what is right, for alcohol 
is deceitful. Taking a little in any form creates a desire for more, and 
if we wish security against the alcoholic appetite, we must avoid the 
smallest beginnings." 

"Have you ever known harm to come from the use of root beer?" 

"Yes, I know of a Christian reformed man who fell, through the 
appetite awakened by root beer. I am glad to say I have known many 
Christian families give up root beer because of its alcohol. Others would 
not now be using it if they had known how alcohol is made. So we say, 
'Cry aloud and spare not.' Improve even this opportunity to teach the 
people about alcohol." 

JAMAICA GINGER. 

"I am tired and cold, aren't you?" said one lady to another, as they 
were shopping one winter day. 

"Yes," replied her friend. "Come in here and get a hot ginger," 
invited the first, and the two quiet, cultured women took their places 
with others at the counter of a fashionable drug store and ordered each 
a "hot Jamaica Ginger." 

They, and others, sipped and talked, and after a time passed out, 
but the proprietor said to a bystander, "Those women would scorn to go 
to a bar and get a hot whisky sling, but they've taken their ginger for 
just the same reason the toper takes his dram, because it braces them 
up, and they have taken it for the alcohol in it, too, though perhaps they 
do not know that part of it." 

"Is it so strong of liquor as that?" questioned the hearer. "Cer- 
tainly," replied the druggist, "it contains about twice as much alcohol 
as whisky, and a 'ginger tipple' is getting to be a common thing with 
women." After a moment he added thoughtfully, "I am not at all sure 



348 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

that the drink habit of many young women of to-day may not have 
been cultivated by the ease with which the Jamaica Ginger bottle is 
opened and used in the home." 

This may seem a harsh statement, but any one who will pour a 
little Jamaica Ginger into a small dish and touch a match to it, will see 
that it is almost pure alcohol. 

Said a mother one day to a friend, who had thus proved to her the 
alcohol in her ginger, "I wonder if that is why my boy loves ginger tea 
made of this kind of ginger and will not touch the old-fashioned kind." 
A little effort proved this to be the case, and the mother was horrified to 
find that her twelve-year-old boy had already developed a love for liquor. 
It took the combined effort of the mother and boy, aided by a skilled 
physician, to conquer the awakened appetite. 

In these days when so much is being said of the danger and harmful- 
ness of patent medicines, let us not forget that one of the most insidious 
is found in the bottle of Jamaica Ginger which has its place on so many 
pantry shelves. — Emma Graves Dietrick. 

A WOMAN'S ESTIMATE. 

The following letter in the Detroit Journal bares one woman's heart 
and reveals a life robbed of all that is dear in this world. We reprint 
it in full : 

"Editor The Journal : Allow me to say a few words to the readers 
of your independent paper in reference to a clause of a liquor bill that 
has been introduced in the house, asking for compensation for those that 
local option puts out of business. I did not think that the people sent 
a man to Lansing with cheek enough to introduce such a bill. Instead 
of the taxpayers compensating the bloated liquor barons, a bill ought to 
be introduced confiscating what they have accumulated out of the 
accursed traffic in the past ten years, and this money ought to be given 
back to the criminals, the starving wives and destitute children they 
have made. 

"Twelve years ago I married a mechanic in a town in Sanilac 
County. He was bright and intelligent and capable of earning $600 a 
year. He got in the habit of going to the barrooms, first for company 
and then for drinks, until I had to take in washing to support myself 
and children. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 349 

"After ten years of poverty and misery, two months ago he died of 
delirium tremens. He never was a bad man, but was lured to his doom ; 
and I at middle age am left a pauper with two children to raise. There 
are a dozen men in this village who will soon follow him to their graves. 
Only for liquor we would have been the happiest couple of the country. 
About the time that I got married a chum of mine married a bartender. 
He afterward got a saloon of his own, and eight years ago he purchased 
a building that he turned into a hotel for $1,500. It cost $500 to make 
the changes. This building for liquor purposes, he says, is worth $10,000. 
He has also bought a farm, has a race horse, two bulldogs, and an auto. 
His wife has four silk dresses and a sealskin sacque. In ten years he got 
$300 of my husband's earnings. 

"Now, if local option is carried in the county, he wants compen- 
sation. He no doubt wants about $8,000 on one hotel and a pension of 
about $1,000 per year for not having a business to make maniacs, 
drunkards, suicides, tramps, orphan children, destitute wives and starving 
widows. 

"The first thing that we know, hangmen will be wanting compen- 
sation for lost business in states where capital punishment has been 
abolished. I will send the price of my next day's washing to help pur- 
chase a coat-of-arms for the fellow who introduced the bill with the 
compensation clause in it. A representative or a senator who would 
vote for such a measure could not get the votes of three honest men in 
one state. 

"Signed^ — A Pauper From the Liquor Traffic." 

SAVED HIS HAND. 

A young laboring man was brought to a certain hospital with a 
badly lacerated hand. He had fallen upon an old cotton hook, and it had 
gone entirely through the palm of his hand, carrying with it rust and 
dirt. The wound was kept open so it would suppurate freely and be 
readily cleansed. As time passed the hand became very much swollen, 
turned black, and the surgeons watched carefully for signs of blood 
poisoning, fearing that the entire hand would have to be amputated to 
save the life of its possessor. These signs not appearing, it then became 
a question whether more of the hand could be saved than the thumb and 
first two fingers. As the hand became no worse, the surgeons delayed 



350 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

operating on it, and after a time it began to mend, and finally healed 
entirely. 

"Young man," said the surgeon to the patient, as the danger was 
passing away, "do you use alcohol in any form?" 

"No, sir." 

"Do you use tobacco?" 

"No, sir." 

With a wave of his hand, a nod of his head, the surgeon murmured : 

"That is what saved your hand." — Temperance Cause. 

THOSE WHO DRINK ARE DEAD. 

Senator Chauncey M. Depew said, in a talk to a railroad man 
"Twenty-five years ago I knew every man, woman and child in Peekshill, 
and it has been a study with me to take boys who started in every 
grade of life with myself to see what has become of them. I was up 
last fall and began to count them over, and it was an instructive exhibit. 

"Some of them became clerks, merchants, manufacturers, lawyers 
and doctors. It is remarkable that everyone of those who drank are 
dead, not one living of my age. Barring a few who were taken of? by 
sickness, everyone has proved a wreck and wrecked his family, from rum 
and no other cause. 

"Of those who are church-going people, who are steady, industrious 
and are hard-working men, who were frugal and thrifty, every single one 
of them without exception owns the house in which he lives and has 
something laid up, the interest on which, with his home, would carry him 
through many a rainy day. When a man becomes debased with 
gambling or drink, he doesn't care — all his finer feelings are crowded 
out." — Maryland Searchlight. 

WHAT DRINK DID. 

"A two-dollar bill came into the hands of a relative of mine, which 
speaks volumes on the horrors of strong drink or the traffic in it. There 
was written in red ink on the back of it the following: Wife, children, 
and over $40,000, all gone. I am alone responsible. All has gone down 
my throat. When I was twenty-one I had a fortune. I am not yet 
thirty-five years old. I have killed my beautiful wife, who died of a 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 351 

broken heart; have murdered my children with neglect. When this 
bill is gone, I do not know how I can get my next meal. I shall die a 
drunken pauper. This is my last money and my history. If this bill 
comes into the hands of any man who drinks, let him take warning from 
my life's ruin.' " — Vanguard. 

BAD COMPANY. 

Dr. Torrey once said to an audience: "I want to tell you how I 
signed the pledge. I was a preacher, but I didn't believe in total 
abstinence. Going out to preach one summer, I went into a town and 
found a temperance revival going on, and I wished I had not come. 
They were going to have a temperance meeting that night. They said 
to me: 'Of course you will speak at the meeting/ I had never been 
inside one, for I had convinced myself that I didn't believe in total 
abstinence. What should I do? I thought over it; I prayed over it; I 
spent almost the whole day in prayer. I prayed it through, and it 
became as clear as day that, if for nothing more than my influence, I 
ought to take my stand and sign the pledge. I went down to the 
meeting, and a speaker delivered his little speech. Then he said : 'Every- 
body in the room who has never signed the pledge, stand up!" An old 
drunkard, a lady and myself were the only ones in the building who 
stood up. As far as the lady was concerned, she was good-looking, and 
I didn't feel in bad company. I went up and signed the pledge. The 
lady walked up, and she signed the pledge. She is here to-night. She is 
my wife now. She was seventeen and I was twenty. The old drunkard 
came up and signed the pledge, too. Men and women, I want to repeat 
what I said the other night : If you can get along just as well without 
the drink, sign the pledge for your brother's sake. If you can't get along 
just as well without it, sign the pledge for your own sake." — Selected by 
Living Water. 

NOT WORTH THE PRICE. 

Among the mountains, some years ago, there lived a man who made 
a living by catching rattlesnakes. The reason he could thus make a 
living was that all the fools are not dead yet. He caught rattlesnakes 
and put them in boxes and covered them with glass and exhibited them 



352 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

on his front porch upon the public road, and sold them to curiosity 
hunters. This mountaineer had one child, a fat-faced, chubby-handed, 
sweet little child he called Jim. He always met him on his home-coming 
at the front gate. The old mountaineer, when not bringing home a rattle- 
snake, would gather him in his arms and kiss his chubby face. He could 
taste the sweetness of his boy's cheek through the heavy layer of dirt. 
Jim was the most precious object on earth to him. He brought a rattle- 
snake from the mountains one day, placed it alive in the glass-covered 
box, slipped the lid over it, and stepped out to the wood pile to chop 
some wood. Little Jim came up to the glass-covered box, pulled back 
the lid, and, with his chubby, little hands pulled the live reptile on the 
lap of his little linsey dress. The snake planted his fangs in the cheek of 
the little fellow while he screamed, "Papa! papa! papa!" The father 
hearing his cries, ran with ax in hand, slipped the handle of the axe 
into the coils of the snake, threw it into the yard, and chopped its head 
off. Gathering little Jim in his arms, he began to cry : "Jim's dead ! 
Jim's dead!" His neighbor, Tom, hearing the cry, ran over to his cabin 
home. As the little boy lay on his mother's lap, his body swelling and 
his eyes bloodshot, the mountaineer said to his neighbor: "Tom, little 
Jim is going to die, and I would not give little Jim for every rattlesnake 
on these old mountains and for every dollar I have made off them." 

Brother, we have the serpent of the still, and have put him in our 
glass-front saloons for the hope of the revenue. But our boys have 
stepped off the home steps and walked down into the glass-front saloons, 
pulled this serpent upon their hearts and lives, and the great cry comes 
up from all the earth to-day : "My boy is gone ! my boy is gone !" 
I never look into the bloated face or bloodshot eyes of a drunken 
American boy without saying in my heart : "I would not give that one 
American boy for every dollar we have made off the infernal stuff." — - 
G. R. Stuart in Herald of Light. 

OH, THOU CURSED DRINK! 

The following tragedy, enacted upon the stage of life by a victim of 
the poison which at last "biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder," 
was related by Mr. John G. Wooley, the great temperance lecturer. The 
story is this : 

There was a young man in one of the Western States, one of the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 353 

unfortunate ones who seem to have been born with an almost unquench- 
able appetite for strong drink, but in all other respects a man of splendid 
qualities. His station in life was humble, but he possessed abilities that 
might have enabled him to make his life a success 

He married a pure, good young woman, to whom he was deeply 
attached, and who sincerely returned his affection. 

Strong drink affects men in various ways ; some drink daily ; others 
have periodic cravings, while still others are driven mad at the very 
sight and smell of it. John, that being the name of the young man, was 
an example of the last. 

Soon after marriage he and his bride establshed a comfortable little 
home, and for some time everything was well with them ; his promise to 
her before marriage that henceforth he would no more yield to his 
besetting sin caused her trustful, loving heart to hope that his pledge 
would be kept. 

One day, a farmer living at some distance from their home engaged 
the young couple to help him. 

As they were walking home after their day's labor, light-hearted and 
happy in the anticipation of a restful and quiet evening, they were over- 
taken by an acquaintance of the young man, who invited them to seats in 
his wagon. After riding some distance the acquaintance reached down 
into the body of the wagon and brought out a bottle of whisky and 
invited the young man to take a drink with him. The wife started up 
in agony, crying, "John, don't touch it; don't touch it." He paid sullen 
silence to her tearful pleading, he who had been so tender and gentle 
heretofore; his tempter laughed sneeringly at his submission to the 
control of a woman. 

Upon nearing their destination, the husband and wife left the wagon, 
John full of anger with his wife for her interference, being sensitive to 
the ridicule of his false friend, and influenced still more by the aroused 
craving which the sight of the bottle had created. 

Upon reaching home he attended to his evening chores and then 
disappeared, his wife having entered the house. John went to a distant 
tavern and began to drink heavily, until the doors were closed upon him. 
By that time he had become like a demon as he staggered home. 

In the morning — but oh! how shall the horrible story be related! 
He awoke to find that he had become a murderer, his victim being his 



354 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

own noble wife, whom he had slain, not knowing what he was doing, in 
his drunken fury, angry, no doubt, at her gentle rebuke. 

Mr. Wooley defended him at the trial. The proof was so positive 
that the prisoner's hand had done the cruel deed that the verdict of the 
jury was murder in the first degree. Poor John was permitted to 
address a few words to the judge, in which he said: "Judge, I did the 
deed; yet it was not I who did it, but the whiskey, for dearly did I love 
my wife." 

His remorse was powerless to avert the penalty meted out by the 
stern decree of the law. — Selected by God's Revivalist. 

A WIFE BECAME AN OPEN BOOK. 

A wicked, drunken woman, in one of our large cities, was attracted 
into a church one Sunday evening and was converted to Christ. The 
pastor of the church went to see her husband, and found him a very 
shrewd mechanic, who was very bitter against Christianity, and greatly 
fascinated with Ingersoll's sneers at the Bible. He was full of contempt 
at his wife's profession of conversion, and said he had no doubt she'd 
soon get over it. Six months passed away and one evening this man 
called to see the minister in great anxiety concerning his own salvation. 
He said : "I have read all leading books on the evidences of Christianity, 
and I can stand out against their arguments ; but for the past six months 
I have had an open book about my fireside, in the person of my wife, 
that I am not able to answer. I have come to the conclusion that I am 
wrong, and that there must be something holy and divine about a religion 
that could take a woman and change her into the loving, patient, prayer- 
ful, singing saint that she is now." The best books on Christianity are 
the men and women who live transformed lives in fellowship with 
Christ. — Selected. 

DIARY OF RUM SELLER. 

Monday. — Took Ragged Bill's last dime for whiskey. 

Tuesday. — Had a visit from Charlie Piper, who swore off three 
months ago and signed the pledge ; gave him three drinks on tick. 

Wednesday. — That poor, nervous fool, Dick Plaster, who gets wild 
and nervous after one drink, came in to-day ; sold him a quart. 

P. S. — Hear he killed his wife in drunken rage. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 355 

Thursday. — Johnny Slogan's wife begged me never to sell another 
drop to him. She cried till I promised. 

P. S. — Sold him enough this very day to make him smash furniture 
and beat his children. Ha ! ha ! ha ! business is business. 

Friday. — Phil Carter had no money. Took his wife's wedding ring 
and silk dress for an old bill ; sent him home gloriously drunk. 

Saturday. — Young Sam Chap took his third drink to-day. I know 
he likes it and will make a speedy drunkard, but I gave him the value of 
his money. His father implored me to help him break up the practice 
before it became a habit, but I told him if I didn't sell it, some one 
else would. 

Sunday. — Pretended to keep the Sunday law to-day, but kept open 
my back door. Sold beer and wine to some boys, but they'll be ashamed 
to tell of it. Bet my till is fuller to-night than the church baskets are. 

N. B. — My business must be respectable, for real gentlemen patronize 
my bar, and yet I guess I won't keep a diary, for these facts look very 
queer on paper. — Way of Faith. 

THE LICENSE PLAN. 

Mother. — "Our boy is out late at nights." 

Father. — "Well, we must tax the saloons $50." 

Mothe r . — "Husband, I believe John drinks." 

Father.— "We must put up that tax to $100." 

Mother. — "My dear husband, our dear boy is being ruined." 

Father.— "Try 'em awhile at $200." 

Mother. — "O my God ! my boy came home drunk." 

Father.— "Well, well ! we must make it $300." 

Mother. — "Think, William, our boy is in jail." 

Father.— "I'll fix these saloons. Tax $400." 

Mother. — "My poor child is a confirmed drunkard." 

Father.— "Up with that tax and make it $500." 

Mother. — "Our once noble boy is a wreck." 

Father.— "Now I will stop 'em. Make it $600." 

Mother. — "We carry our boy to a drunkard's grave to-day." 

Father. — "Well, I declare. We must regulate the traffic; we ought 
to have made the tax $1,000."— Selected. 

"Regulate the traffic !" Just as well talk about regulating the cyclone 
or the smallpox by putting a license on it. Putting a destructive viper in 



356 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

bed with your sleeping child and forbidding it to bite the child, would 
be no greater folly than trying to "regulate" the liquor traffic with a high 
license. What this country needs is not the licensed saloon, but no saloon 
at all. The whole infamous business is an eating canker that is destroy- 
ing its multitudes, and if permitted to go on, will finally destroy the 
nation. Down with this broiling broth of hell fire. — Selected. 

YOUR BOY AMONG THE POSSIBILITIES. 

The celebrated' temperance speaker, John B. Gough, once presented 
the following touching picture : 

"Oh ! I have sometimes looked at a bright, beautiful boy, and my 
flesh has crept within me at the thought that there was a bare possibility 
that he might become a drunkard. I was once playing with a beautiful 
boy in Norwich, Conn.; I was carrying him to and fro on my back, both 
of us enjoying ourselves exceedingly, for I loved him and I think he 
loved me. During our play I said to him, 'Harry, will you go down with 
me to the side of the stone wall?' 'Oh, yes/ was his cheerful reply. We 
went together, and saw a man lying listlessly there, quite drunk, his face 
upturned to the bright blue sky; the sunbeams that warmed and 
illumined us lay upon his porous, greasy face; the pure morning wind 
kissed his parched lips and passed away poisoned ; the very swine looked 
more noble than he, for they were fulfilling the purposes of their being. 
As I looked upon the poor, degraded man and then looked upon that 
child, with his bright brow, his beautiful blue eyes, his rosy cheeks, his 
pearly teeth and ruby lips — the perfect picture of life, peace and 
innocence, as I looked upon the man, then upon the child, and felt his 
little hand twitching convulsively in mine, and saw his lips grow white, 
and eyes dim gazing on the poor drunkard, then did I pray God to give 
me an everlasting, increasing capacity to hate with a burning hatred any 
instrumentality that could make such a thing of a being, once as fair as 
that little child. ,, 

LIQUID BREAD. 

I remember, says one, of seeing over the door of a public house 
in Liverpool, "Good ale is liquid bread." I went into the house and 
said, "Give me a quart of liquid bread." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 357 

The landlord said, "Ah! first-rate sign, isn't it?" 

"Yes/' said I, "if it's true." 

"Oh, it's true enough ; my beer is all right." 

"Well, give me a bottle to take home." He gave me a bottle of this 
liquid bread. I took it to an analytical chemist, and said to him, "I want 
you to tell me how much bread there is in this bottle." 

He smelled it and said, "It's beer." 

"No, no," said I, "it's liquid bread." 

"Well," he said', "if you will come in a week's time I'll tell you all 
about it." 

In a week's time I went to learn all about the liquid bread. The 
first thing about it was that ninety-three per cent of it was water. 

"It's liquid anyhow," I said; "we'll pass that. Now let us go on 
to the bread." 

"Alcohol, five per cent." 

"What's alcohol?" I said. 

"There's the dictionary; you can hunt it up for yourself." I hunted 
it up, and found alcohol described as a "powerful narcotic poison." 
"Well," I thought, "this is the queerest description of bread I ever read 
in my life." Then he gave me a number of small percentages of curious 
things, which he had carefully put down on each corner of a piece of 
white paper, and which amounted to about a quarter of a thimbleful of 
dirty-looking powder. That was the bread — two per cent. 

"And there would not be so much as that," said the chemist, "if it 
were pure beer. This is bad beer." 

"So the better the beer the less bread there is in it?" 

"Certainly. It is the business of the brewer to get bread out of it, 
not to put bread into it." 

This is the simple scientific truth with regard to beer, and the case 
is stronger with regard to wine and spirits. There is practically no 
nourishment in them.— Selected. 

WANTED: r A BARTENDER. 

The other day I picked up a newspaper, and glancing over the 
advertisements for help, read as follows : 

"Wanted — A bartender. Must be a total abstainer. Apply," etc. 
Is not that a curious advertisement? What should we think of such 



358 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

an advertisement in any other line of business? How would an adver- 
tisement like this look? 

"Wanted — A barber, who has never had his hair cut. Apply at the 
barber shop on the corner/' 

Or this? 

"Wanted — A salesman in a shoe store. He must go barefoot while 
on duty. Apply at Blank's Shoe Store." 

What other business finds it necessary or desirable to advertise for 
help pledged to make no use of the goods sold? Can it be that the liquor 
traffic finds it has wrought so great demoralization that it is forced to 
draw upon temperance, or total abstinence fanatics, in order to continue 
its business? — Selected. 

A SOLDIER'S STORY. 

Many years ago Colonel Lamanowsky, who had been twenty-three 
years in the army of Napoleon Bonaparte, arose in a temperance meeting, 
tall, vigorous, and with the glow of health on his face, and made the fol- 
lowing remarkable speech : 

"You see before you a man seventy years old. I have fought 200 
battles, have fourteen wounds on my body, have lived thirty days on 
horseflesh, with the bark of trees for my bread, snow and ice for my 
drink, the canopy of heaven for my covering, and only a few rags of 
clothing. In the desert of Egypt I have marched for days with the 
burning sun upon my head, feet blistered with the scorching sand, and 
with eyes, nostrils and mouth filled with dust, and with a thirst so tor- 
menting that I have opened the veins of my arms and sucked my own 
blood. 

"Do you ask how I survived all these horrors? I answer that, 
under the providence of God, I owe my preservation, my health and 
vigor to the fact that I never drank a drop of spirituous liquor in my 
life, and," continued he, "Baron Larry, chief surgeon of the French army, 
has stated as a fact that the 6,000 survivors who safely returned from 
Egypt were all those who abstained from ardent drinks." — Lever. 

HOW THE SALOON WAS CLOSED. 

There were a number of saloons in the place, but on by-streets and 
quietly conducted. This one, however, stood in the public square, con- 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 359 

fronting three churches. A handsome building, the interior lavishly 
adorned, and at the spacious, attractive bar experts served drinks plain, 
or spiced and drugged to taste, while music and flashily-dressed women 
added their allurements. A procession of tipplers passed into its doors 
day and night, despite a vigorous temperance sentiment voiced in "union 
temperance meetings" in the churches Sunday evenings, and "gospel 
temperance rallies" mid-week. Thus had it been for two years. 

I was more impressed by the gravity of evil, because, as a resident 
physician, scenes of domestic discord, want, woe, caused by intoxicants 
often met my eye, accompanied at times by appalling atrocities ; besides 
which the sad career of the saloonkeeper had shocked and grieved me. 
I knew him when a lad of much promise, but indulgence in the wine 
cup had led to confirmed drinking; and falling heir to some money, he 
built an elegant brick block and stocked it with liquors. He developed 
into the most odious manhood, bloated, blasphemous, fierce. One would 
scarcely believe that from the fine-mannered, fair-cheeked boy, a face and 
disposition so brutish could be evolved. What could be done to save him 
and close up the infamous business? All I knew how to do was, as I 
passed the saloon on my professional rounds, to lift my heart in silent 
petitions for divine interposition. 

A patient of mine was an elderly lady who for five years had lain on 
her bed awaiting death. She was a remarkable example of the Christ- 
spirit and of faith in prayer. On asking her to pray for the saloonkeeper, 
she answered : "I am doing so," and drew from under her pillow a list 
of her subjects of prayer — the "hard cases" of the town, his name among 
them ; and she said, "Perhaps the Lord is about to use you for the 
rescue of that poor soul. But don't labor with him till God's Spirit 
specially moves you to. Wait for your message. If you go to him in 
your strength, in a purely human zeal, you will anger and harden him." 

Weeks elapsed, when one day I was strongly impressed to write to 
the saloonist, but decided to devote another seven days to seeking grace 
for the delicate, difficult task. Then, on attempting it, the thoughts came 
more swiftly than the pen could trace them. Sure am I that the plea 
which resulted could not have been indited by my own unaided powers. 
It was terrible in its solemnly graphic arraignment of liquor selling and 
liquor drinking, yet every line seemed to throb with more than human 
tenderness. The letter was sent unsigned. But later the thought arose : 
What if he should recognize the handwriting? And as I went by his 



360 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

saloon I expected him to rush out and assault me, unless our supplications 
on his behalf had reached the ear on high. I thought it singular, how- 
ever, that whereas heretofore I met the saloonkeeper almost daily, now 
for a long time he kept out of my. sight. But one afternoon at twilight 
the office door-bell rang, and on answering it, the burly form of the 
liquor seller stood before me. Had he discovered the authorship of that 
letter, and come with ruffianly intent? 

He entered, took a proffered chair, was silent a moment, and then 
said: 

"Doctor, someone thought enough of me to write me a letter. And 
I have called to say that I have resolved never to drink or sell another 
drop of liquor as long as I live." 

I sprang to my feet in a mingled tumult of joy and anxiety, saying: 

"My dear friend, you cannot do that. The drink craze has its hold 
upon you — it is not possible to resolve it away. It will be with you as 
with hundreds of others 1 — temporary reform, then fail, to sink lower than 
ever. God can save you ; you can't save yourself. If you will truly seek 
him in prayer he will fortify your weak will and hold you up. There is 
no hope for you otherwise." 

He dropped his eyes and responded : 

"I do pray; I am praying; I feel that God hears me, and I shall 
conquer." 

His confidence was not disappointed. The saloon was closed, and 
now for many years he has been a steadfast and honored temperance 
worker, and a devout church member. — The Open Door. 

RESCUED MEN. 

"Into the Jerry McCauley Mission, in New York City, he came; and 
even in that place his appearance attracted attention. 

"His eyes were swollen almost shut. His besotted face had lost 
nearly all semblance of humanity. His shoes had flapping soles, and 
were tied on with bits of twine. He wore no stockings. One leg of 
his trousers had a rip almost to the knee. His only remaining garment 
was a clerical coat. This had never been of first-class material, and had 
grown shiny and ragged; and upon its present owner it served to 
accentuate the caricature of his appearance, and to show where men go 
for their last begging. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 361 

"He stepped into the mission by accident or Providence. He was on 
his way to the river to commit suicide ; for he had been collared and 
thrust forth from the miserable saloon where of late he had resorted, 
the bartender cursing as he kicked him, and saying that he had become 'a 
disgrace to the place/ 

" A disgrace to the place ! And such a place ! If it had come to 
that, there was but one thing left, he said; and he started for the river. 
But he heard the singing, entered the mission, and without waiting to be 
urged, came forward at the first invitation ; for he was literally a drown- 
ing man, and he clutched at a straw. 

'But that man was even then at the head of a business in New 
York City; and his name, signed by another as trustee, had value at 
the bank. His had been an honorable career. But there had been a 
few short years of riotous living, and they had broken up his home, 
wrecked his manhood, and had so nearly ruined his business that it 
had been saved only by an arrangement that gave its control to others, 
and left him a hopeless wanderer in the city of his birth. 

"It is now two years since that man paused on his way to the 
river. Rapid as had been the disintegration of his character, the 
influence of faith has been still more swift. 

"Clothed, and in his right mind, he now visits the mission when* 
he found' new life. He plays the organ in the church which he ha* 
joined. He sits in his own office, controls his own business, and signs 
his own checks. And by no means least of the changes, he is reconciled 
to his wife and children, and lives in his own home. 

"It is easy to say of such a case, 'Well, he saw his mistake and 
pulled up in time. He called his will into play, and reformed.' The 
explanation does not wholly satisfy, nor does any other explanation 
which leaves out of account the help of God, always waiting one who 
desires and tries to do better. 

"Examples such as this, continually occurring, are a sufficient 
answer to those who regard the gospel as merely a fact of ancient 
history. Now, as ever, it is the power of God unto salvation.'* — Youths' 
Companion. 

WHAT RUINS GIRLS. 

Mary E. Keegan, chief matron of the Chicago Police Department, 
says : 



362 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Of all the ten or twelve thousand unfortunate girls and wrecked 
women arrested every year in Chicago, among those who tell their woes 
to me, ninety-nine out of every hundred attribute their downfall to the 
first glass of wine or champagne, taken generally with a male com- 
panion, always for good fellowship's sake. 

"That first glass is the beginning of the end — and here you see 
what the end is. 

"When a woman once begins to drink, even in a social way, her 
future is threatened with either moral weakness or utter ruin. So many 
women who came here tell me that the first sparkling glass of champagne 
was the beginning of all their misfortune." 

Reader, think of the number, "ten or twelve thousand" and only one 
large city, and think that "ninety-nine out of every hundred attribute 
their downfall to the first glass of wine." And yet wine drinking is very 
common among all grades of society, especially among what may be 
termed the "upper crust." What danger, and what an awful harvest ! 
This nefarious American custom ought to be tabooed everywhere. The 
church of the living God should cry out against it. Down with the 
treating system ! Down with wine drinking ! Down with the American 
drunkery ! 

THE RUMSELLER'S EQUIVALENT. 

The honest law of traffic, known and unquestioned by all men, 
demands that in all the exchanges of trade mutual benefits shall be 
conferred. The benefits that come to the rumseller from his devilish 
traffic show themselves in a splendid home adorned with all that money 
can procure. His wife and children are clothed in elegant attire and 
move in an atmosphere laden with luxury and pride. But look, my 
friends ! What are the benefits that come to the man who is the other 
party to the traffic that passes over the rumseller's bar? Does that man 
get health and happiness, social and moral improvement for the dimes 
he pours into the rumseller's till? Does the traffic carry fertility to his 
farm, prosperity to his business or comfort to his family? Can he 
boast that out of his patronage of the spirit-vender he has a better 
credit, a larger custom, a longer bank account? 

Ask the drunkard, and he will answer in groans, that his returns 
have come in commercial ruin, social infamy and moral degradation. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 363 

Look to his habitation, and the answer will come in fallen chimneys and 
rag-stuffed windows. Ask his children, and their answer comes in a moan 
from tattered garments and haggard faces. Ask the wife, with her calloused 
hands and care-worn visage, what has therumseller done for her? He has 
taken her last bed while the saloon-keeper's wife rests at night upon a 
couch of down ; he has taken her last gown, while the finest fabrics of the 
world's loom are ready for the rumseller's wife; he has taken her last 
loaf, while the rumseller's table groans with the choicest products of 
forest, field and stream ; and, as if this were not enough, at last he robs 
her of the heart of her husband, clouds in the blackness or darkness the 
sky that was once so sunny, and makes a hell of that home that was once 
a paradise to her. 

Go to her wretched hovel at midnight, and behold her through the 
crevices of the wall or the broken panes of the window through which the 
blasts of December howl the requiem of all her hopes. Why does she 
sit there shivering over the last half-consumed stick of fuel ? She weeps 
and sighs, tears that would have been smiles and sighs that would have 
been songs had not the accursed traffic invaded her home. Why does 
she sit there in that joyless solitude? Only to wait for the drunkard's 
return. The devoted wife cannot forget the past, though he who once 
had the heart and soul of a man, now reels into her cabin a savage, a 
tiger, a putrid mass of disease, a loathsome living death. 

Who has wrought this transformation? Who has effaced God's 
image, and turned the husband into a fury, the father into a fiend ? This 
is the mad catalogue of woes the rumseller has given for the drunkard's 
money. Though coined into tears and anguish and loneliness and 
desolation and despair in the life of the drunkard's wife, the drunkard's 
money flashes in the rumseller's diamonds, floats in perfumed clouds 
from the rumseller's cigar, glows in costly pictures upon the rumseller's 
walls, and glints and gleams in all the appointments of the rumseller's 
home. 

Oh, moderate drinker, take this picture of plain, unvarnished fact 
home to your heart this night. If your home is still your own, if your 
children still have the laugh and the prattle that give you joy, if you still 
can surround her whom you love with those attentions that show you 
love her, oh, I beg you to remember what a transformation can be 
wrought in your life and home if you continue to be a party in the 



364 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

traffic that goes on over the rumseller's bar. — Joseph Cross in Union 
Signal. 

ADVERTISEMENT OF RUM-VOTING CHURCHES. 

To the Public and World at Large, Greeting: 

Dear Friends: Please remember, we, as a church and nation, are 
still legislating laws to sustain and perpetuate the liquor traffic in this 
country ; though we know it is the most treacherous, damning legislation 
among men. As we are receiving large revenues from our distilleries 
and saloon men, they must receive large dividends to meet our demand. 

We are very grateful for past public courtesies and patronage. If 
you will continue to lavish your hard earnings on us, we will continue 
to make drunkards, beggars and vagabonds out of sober, industrious 
people. Our liquor breaks up the best of families, creates riot, blood- 
shed and thousands of murders. We know we had just as well license 
highwaymen to murder a hundred thousand of our best citizens a year, 
as to license the saloons to kill the same number. In fact, we feel that 
the saloon slow-murder is the more wicked and heinous of the two; as 
we first convert fathers, mothers, children and neighbors into fiends; 
then we fill the mad-houses with blasted hopes and ruined lives; after 
which they fall into a drunkard's grave and a drunkard's hell. Thus 
our saloons, like hungry bloodhounds, bay in the path of church and 
nation, till they suck from our national pocket over a billion dollars a 
year, and would, if it were possible, destroy every human being from 
the face of the earth. Still, at election, with bloody fingers, we drop the 
satanic ballot which dooms millions to eternal woe ; yet we accommodate 
the public at such a cost. 

We know the Bible says, "Thou shalt not kill," "Woe unto him 
that giveth his neighbor drink," and not to "put a stumbling-block in his 
brother's way." We also read, "No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom 
of God" — and we know a rum-voter, a drunkard-maker, will not share 
any better fate — ; but we want the revenue, and our distilleries want 
the blood-money; and we've made up our mind that iniquity pays good 
wages; so we are all in partnership to carry on this business at the 
expense of the purity and eternal happiness of the race. For proof 
of our ability to do this (as a church and nation), we refer you to the 
pawnshop, police station, lunatic asylum, state's prison, the gallows, 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 365 

and hell at last, whither our customers are going. And when the doings 
of time are written up, the records of the Almighty will prove these facts ; 
still, we expect to keep on legislating for this wholesole human slaughter 
till the decent worldlings shall remove the "National Curse" from 
among us. 

Don't fail to come and see us; as you and your boys and girls 
might as well share this fate and fatal plunge with the rest of us. 

Yours for perdition, 

Signed by order of The Clerical Council, Church' of the Apostasy. 

Bishop Rum Doomed. 

Elder Revenue Blood. 

Recorder Death Angel. 

The Devil, Business Manager and President. — Tract. 

THE LIGHT WINE FALLACY. 

After a period of ten years spent among vineyards and wine-presses, 
we have no hesitation in declaring that as a demoralizing and besotting 
agent, colonial wine is leagues ahead of either beer or spirits. Stories, 
heart-rending and sad, can be told of homes blighted through the 
intemperate habits of father or son, caused by the consumption of beer 
or spirits, but stories infinitely sadder can be told of whole families 
desolated and destroyed through the making and consuming of colonial 
wine. We produce but one instance to illustrate and sustain our con- 
tention, and give it simply as it came before us. 

J. C. was a man on the shady side of the middle life when first we 
met, and were introduced to him by a brother minister as one of the 
supporters of his church. It was* with a feeling of pride Mr. C. intro- 
duced us to his wife and family of eight stalwart sons and buxom 
daughters, and then took us through his broad acres of flourishing vines, 
and last, but not least, into his spacious, airy and up-to-date winery, 
with its huge tuns, vats and presses. That we declined to sample his 
wines, we are afraid was regarded as slightly unsociable. 

"It is quite harmless, you know," said Mr. C, "quite harmless." 

"Perhaps so ; but on principle and for the sake of others, we strictly 
abstain." After an hour spent in listening to a description of the proper- 
ties of different kinds of grapes and the various processes in wine- 
making, we bid our friend and his family adieu, promising if at any, 
future time we should be in the district, we would give them a call. 



366 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Several years have now passed since the above transpired. A few 
weeks ago we found ourselves within a mile or two of the home of our 
old vigneron host. Whilst sitting at the table, a member of the family 
with whom we were staying, entered the room and announced that 
"Dr. H. had given up all hopes of Mary C, and she would not last the 
night through." 

"Mary C," we observed; "that reminds us, how is our old friend 
Mr. C, of T vineyard?" 

"Don't ask me," our friend at the head of the table replied; "my 
heart would bleed to tell you all. This Mary of whom we have just 
heard is the last of that 'fine family of eight you saw only a few years 
ago, and with perhaps but one exception, all have come to their graves 
victims to wine drinking." 

We said nothing. Our friend went on : 

"Within the last six years I have buried seven of those sons and 
daughters. One, frenzied with wine, laid hands on his own life, and 
one by one, besotted and diseased, they have dropped into the grave — a 
grave so hopeless and so dark ; and now to think the only child left to 
that home is doomed to pass away ere the morning breaks, the last 
victim sacrificed to this Moloch of the wine-press. Oh, the horror of it !" 

"What of the poor heart-broken parents ?" we ventured to ask. 

"There is only one of them left — the father, and he, poor fellow, 
must follow soon, and he is an awful wreck, a slave to his own manu- 
facture." 

"But the mother?" 

"Poor woman, she died three years ago." 

"Was it the wine in her case?" 

"It was, and oh, so sad ! She became so helpless as not to be able 
to help herself to food, and 'those around her were so helplessly drunk 
as not to be able to walk, and thus she died." 

"But surely these constantly recurring deaths would have some 
effect upon the surviving member of the family?" 

"Not the slightest, and it just shows the debasing, dehumanizing 
influence of the wine on its votaries. The surviving members of the 
family have gone to the grave without the slightest indication of feeling. 
The awful hardness induced by wine drinking no one would credit, if he 
did not see it. There is a patch of ground as large as this room in 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 367 

yonder cemetery, in which are buried eight of the family — seven sons 
and daughters, and the mother. I will show you it to-morrow." 

"Thank you, we would rather be excused ; such scenes have no fas 
cination for us," we remarked, and with that the conversation closed. 

We might, perhaps, travel the country through and not find another 
case that runs on all fours with this — and we have not told one-half — 
but cases could be given by the score where the effects are the same. 
The awful insidiousness of the wine-habit is like that of the opium drug, 
and has yet to be realized and brought home to the conscience and 
intelligence of the community. There is no form of strong drink that 
so surely and so effectually demoralizes ; it dethrones reason, it usurps 
the judgment, it paralyzes the will, it destroys the affections, it extir- 
pates the soul, it kills the human, it crushes the divine, it creates the 
devil. Yet this is the industry which judiciary functionaries eulogize 
from the bench, government treasurers obtrusively foster with the 
people's money, and leading politicians propose as a panacea for the 
low morals of the community. The solemn fooling of public men on 
this question is simply deplorable. — Alliance News. 

LOVED AND LOST. 

I was, the other day, in a beautiful residence. There was a large 
gathering of friends, for this family I knew had been prominent for their 
hospitality. I knew that total abstinence had not been smiled upon 
there, but I was astonished when I sat down at the table to notice there 
were no wine glasses. I almost took it as a compliment to myself in my 
foolishness ; but whispering to the lady, I said : 

"I see no wine glasses here ; are you teetotalers for the day because 
I am here?" 

And I saw in a moment the change in her face. She said : 

"I have something to tell you about that." 

As soon as dinner was over she said to me," You asked me about the 
wine glasses?" 

I said, "Yes. I noticed their absence." 

"I will tell you the reason: You remember my Willie?" 

"Oh, yes, I remember Willie well." 

"Was he not a bonny boy?" she asked, with tears in her eyes. 

"Yes," I said, "one of the finest lads I ever knew." 



368 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

"Yes," she said, "and he was my pride. You know he used wine 
freely. You know the leading ministers in the connection had always 
made this house their home, and they have always been welcome. I used 
to allow the children to stay up when the ministers were here, to have 
the benefit of their conversation. The children had half a glass of wine, 
ministers a full glass, and so had their father. By and by I noticed what 
aroused my suspicion. William used to come home smelling of wine, 
and I didn't like it. I spoke to him, and he said there was no danger ; 
he had only been meeting a few friends. 

"By and by I noticed he was husky, and at last he came home in a 
state that made my heart ache. One night he came home quite drunk. 
I could not conceal it from his father. His father is a hot-tempered man. 
He met him in the lobby and bitter words passed. His father ordered 
him out of the house, and he went, and for months we never knew what 
became of him. Father would not let us mention his name, and I and 
his sisters could do nothing but pray. 

"We did not know whether he was dead or alive; and one night, 
when the servants had gone to bed, and we were sitting together, I 
suddenly heard a noise, and I thought it was Willie's voice. I dared 
not speak. My husband looked around and said : 

" 'Did you hear anything? I thought I heard a voice. I believe/ 
he said, 'it is Willie. Just go to the door and see.' I went to the door, 
and there he stood, more like a ghost than a young man. He looked 
at me, and I said, 'Willie/ 

" 'Mother/ he said, 'will you let me in?' 

" 'Ay, my lad, you ought never to have gone away. Come in/ and 
I had to lend him my arm. 

" 'Don't take me into the drawing room ; take me into the kitchen. 
I feel, mother, as if I were dying?' 

" 'No, my lad, you shall not die,' I said. 

" 'Will you make me a basin of barley broth like that you used to 
make me?' 

"T will make you anything you like, my boy; but you must come 
upstairs and lie down/ 

" 'Oh, mother ! I can't take it. I feel as if I was fainting/ 

"I called his father, and he came, but didn't say an angry word to 
him. He could not when he saw the state he was in. We carried him 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 369 

upstairs, and laid him upon the bed, and after a moment's pause he said : 

" 'Father, the drink has killed me.' 

" 'No, my boy/ said his father, 'we shall bring you around yet/ 

"'Never father — God be merciful to me a sinner!' — and his head 
fell back, and there was an end of our boy in this life. 

"His father stood and looked at Willie as he lay there, and said to 
me, 'Mother, the drink has killed our Willie, and there shall never be 
another drop of drink in this house while I am alive.' " — Rev. Charles 
Garrett in Watchman. 

OUR CIVILIZATION FOR SAVAGES. 

Four years ago a Christian chief of Bechuanaland went to London 
on an extraordinary mission. He went there to tell that he had made 
a prohibitive law for his tempted subjects, who are negroes, and he said 
that the principle difficulty he had with it was the smuggling in of 
liquor by British subjects, and he implored her Majesty to second his 
efforts to make prohibition successful. Think of it — a converted African 
savage on his knees before a Christian queen, imploring her not to poison 
his own nation ! — Vanguard. 

THE MOST DANGEROUS TEMPTERS. 

A man who has mingled much with the business and social world 
was discussing the drink habit, in an interview with a representative 
of the San Antonio Express : 

"It is all nonsense," he said, "for young men to say that they cannot 
resist the temptations of the saloon. As far as my experience goes, the 
saloonkeepers of San Antonio and the men of San Antonio seldom urge 
a young man to drink. They say, 'No, I never drink/ or 'I would like to 
be excused this time/ that is the end of it. It is all a mistake about a 
young man being forced to drink if he mingles much with the men of the 
town. He can refuse very easily if he wants to; and when it is once 
known that a man never drinks, he is seldom asked to do it. But the 
real hard people to get away from are the women. You can go into a 
reception where the punch is strong enough to knock you down, and the 
first woman you meet will say, 'Do come and have some punch*' 

" 'No, thank you, not now/ 

" 'Oh, yes ; just one glass with me/ 



370 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"If by a certain amount of rudeness you are able to escape this 
woman, the next one you meet will say: 'This is the most delicious 
punch. Let me help you/ 

"'What! Don't drink punch? What kind of a man are you? I 
assure you, this is quite harmless.' 

"A matronly woman comes along and says: 'You must taste this 
punch ; it is made from my special recipe, and I am proud of it/ 

"'Don't drink? Well, just this time to please me. I've raised my 
children on this punch/ 

"And so on through the evening. A young man who is strong 
enough to resist the temptations of society has nothing to fear from the 
saloons." 

This is the testimony of not one young man, but several, and it is 
no uncommon thing to hear men and boys say : "Why will women urge 
a fellow to drink the way they do?" 

There is something peculiar about wine or liquors of any kind — 
you are always urged to take it. You can refuse bread and butter, meat 
and potatoes, and even coffee, without a word of remonstrance, but never 
wine. — New York Weekly Witness. 

COULD NOT BE BOUGHT. 

John Bailey was hurrying home from school when Mr. Giles hailed 
him. Mr. Giles was the proprietor of a sort of a store and a saloon 
combined. He kept a stock of groceries, flour, and a few other articles, 
and besides, he kept beer on draught, and this last was, of course, the 
most profitable part of his business. 

John stopped and turned back to Mr. Giles' call, and stood waiting. 

"How would you like a chance to earn some money nights and 
mornings?" 

"First rate." 

"I thought so. Well, I need a boy to help in the store, especially 
evenings, and I thought I'd give you the chance. You see, there are a 
good many coming in after working hours for their beer, and serving 
them and weighing up the groceries is 'most too much for one to do ; 
so I thought if we could agree on a price, I'd like you to come in and 
help. You are a likely sort of a boy, I guess." 

John's thoughts had been going speedily forward, and taken in a 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 371 

new coat for himself, a dress for mother, and no end of books and papers, 
to be bought with money he should earn ; but his hopes sank as rapidly 
as they had risem He had not thought of the beer. 

"I don't think that I could come," he said. 

"Why not?" asked Mr. Giles, in surprise. "I thought you would 
jump at the chance." 

"So I did, at first ; but, come to think of it, I couldn't." 

"But why?" and as Mr. Giles insisted upon an answer, John said: 
"I can't help you because I don't want to betray the cause which I am 
pledged to fight for." 

"Cause? Pledged to fight for? What do you mean?" 

"I mean the temperance cause. I can't sell beer, Mr. Giles." 

"Oh ! that is it. Well, John, I won't ask you to sell beer ; you may 
confine yourself to the grocery department." 

"I don't think that would do, either," replied John. "It would look 
bad, any way, and hurt the cause. Guess I can't come at all." 

But Mr. Giles persisted. "I will pay you well," he said ; and finally, 
as John became more decided in his refusal to entertain his proposal, 
he offered him large wages, and John, growing desperate, said: "Mr. 
Giles, I am not worth much, but I am not for sale, what there is of me ;" 
and with that he said good-afternoon, and hurried home to tell his 
mother the story of his interview and get her approval, for he was sure 
she would approve. 

When he had told her, she said: "John, you make me think of 
General Reed." 

"Who was General Reed?" asked John, who was not very well up 
in his history. 

"He was an officer in the American army during the Revolutionary 
War. It was during the winter of 1777-78, the very gloomiest period of 
the war. The soldiers were suffering greatly from privations, and 
many were getting discouraged. The English people were proposing 
measures of settlement of the difficulties ; but the brave general who was 
at the head of the army had faith in the success of the cause, and would 
listen to no terms of peace which did not include an acknowledgment 
of the independence of the colonies. Then bribery was tried, and General 
Reed was offered a large sum of money if he would use his influence 
to bring about an adjustment of matters between the two countries. 
His reply was: T am not worth purchasing; but such as I am, the 



372 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

King of England has not money enough to buy me.' " And Mrs. Bailey 
smiled encouragingly upon her earnest-faced boy, whose dark eyes 
kindled with true patriotic fervor as she added : "I hope you will always 
be loyal to the cause, and that there will never be money enough in all 
the world to buy you. Your name may not go into history alongside 
the patriot of 1777, but truth and loyalty are worth more than a name 
in history." — Selected by Christian Witness. 

A SURGEON'S TEMPERANCE. 

Dr. Lorenz is pre-eminent among the surgeons of Europe. It is of 
interest, therefore, to note that on the occasion of his second visit to 
America during the past year, where his remarkable operations attracted 
much attention, he emphatically declared the danger of alcoholic drinks. 

A banquet was given in his honor in New York City, and wine was 
served. The eminent guest declined it. This caused him to be asked 
if he were a total abstainer from the use of wines and other liquors. 

His answer was as follows : 

"I cannot say that I am a temperance agitator, but I am a surgeon. 
My success depends upon my brain being clear, my muscles firm, and 
my nerves steady. No one can take alcoholic liquors without blunting 
these physical powers, which I must keep always on* edge. As a sur- 
geon, I must not drink." — Selected by Gospel Herald. 

PREACHING IN PRISON. 

The work of the Prohibition sheriff of Cumberland County, Maine, 
does not end with bringing offenders to justice, for no effort is spared 
on his part to induce them to live better lives. 

For nearly thirty years he and Mrs. Pearson, who died a short time 
ago, have been engaged in rescue work in this city. They were always 
frequent visitors to the jail, and did a great deal of religious- and charit- 
able work among the prisoners. After Mrs. Pearson's death a program of 
the memorial services with her picture was given to the prisoners. They 
preserved them very carefully and many placed them on the walls of 
their cells. A few days after, the turnkey brought to Miss Evangeline, 
the sheriff's daughter and only child, a little verse written by one of the 
prisoners. It was faulty in meter and crude in expression, but it voiced 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 373 

the thought of all of the prisoners who had known Mrs. Pearson in 
its last line, "True love for Mrs. Pearson can never die." 

Whenever the other duties of his office will permit, Sheriff Pearson 
visits the prisoners in their cells and talks and prays with them. Every 
Sunday he devotes several hours to this work, and no one leaves the 
jail without the best help and instruction that he and Miss Pearson 
can give them. He especially urges all who are in for drunkenness 
to take the pledge. 

The regular Sunday services in the chapel are conducted by the 
various religious societies of the city. A short time ago the preacher 
who was to conduct the services failed to> appear, and so the sheriff 
took his place and preached to the prisoners, while Miss Pearson con- 
ducted the musical part of the services. 

Miss Pearson lives in the jail with her father and goes unescorted 
among the prisoners, though there are several desperate characters 
among them, giving them reading matter, talking with them and helping 
them all she can. One of the women prisoners was taken ill a short time 
ago. Miss Pearson got medicine and administered it, and took such 
good care of her that she said afterwards, "I couldn't have had better 
care if I had been in a hospital." Bill Hands, a negro who with a 
white associate committed a most brutal murder a few months ago and 
who was captured by Mr. Pearson and his deputies, is confined in this 
jail. He is only twenty-four years old* and will be imprisoned for life, 
as the evidence against him is absolute. Miss Pearson and the turnkey's 
wife are teaching him to read, in order that his state's prison life may 
be passed with at least some chance of betterment. It is pathetic to 
see the big brutal negro slowly learning his alphabet and spelling out 
words of three letters, under the tuition of these women. 

Said the wife of the retiring sheriff to Miss Pearson, when the latter 
came to the jail, "You will never be without a good laundress while you 
stay here. Mary is here practically all of the time. She has not been 
out of jail for more than- ten days for years." "Mary" was in jail at 
the time, as well as her husband, "Pat," both for drunkenness and bad 
conduct generally. But the work of Mr. and Mrs. Pearson began to 
tell even upon "Mary and Pat." Miss Pearson made a hat and a cape 
for "Mary," and "Pat" went out clothed in Mr. Pearson's clothes from 
underclothes to overcoat. They both took the pledge, and "Mary" 



374 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

i 

said, "I'll keep that pledge. I'll not come back here again out of respect 
for Mr. Pearson." 

That was five weeks ago the day before yesterday. Neither "Mary" 
nor "Pat" have been back, except that "Mary," well clothed and respect- 
able looking, called on Miss Pearson to tell her how they were getting 
along. They have both obtained work and have rented a room and gone 
to housekeeping. "Mary" has been urged to drink, but has steadily 
refused. What the ultimate outcome will be, none can tell, but at the 
least, she has had her liberty for about four times as long as she has 
enjoyed at one time for a number of years. 

Mr. Pearson has been intending to have a mid-week prayer service 
in the chapel; but it is not lighted and the county commissioners, who 
have charge of the expenses, have thus far refused to put in lights. Mr. 
Pearson has paid out a great deal of his own money in the enforcement 
of the liquor law and does not feel able to bear the additional expense 
at present. Five of the prisoners manifested a desire to become Chris- 
tians at the last Sunday service, and Mr. Pearson thinks he could reach 
them still more effectually through the prayer services. — The New Voice. 

WHEN THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED. 

I sat in the Union Station in a Southern city and awaited the 
coming of an early morning train. From the window I gazed upon the 
still smoking ruins of three popular saloons, which had been burned to 
the ground the previous night. 

"Terrible fire that was last night," said a stout, red-faced man with 
whom I was slightly acquainted. "Did you come out and see it?" 

"No." 

"Heavy losses, I learn, andi no insurance to speak of. I'm awfully 
sorry for those poor fellows." 

"I can't say that I feel any sympathy, for I believe their loss has 
been the town's gain. I would be glad if we had every saloon here 
wiped out." 

"Do you mean to say, madam, that you are so heartless and narrow 
as to be wholly indifferent to a man's loss of property?" 

"When the property is a saloon — a human deadfall — yes! The 
few who profit by the saloon are worthless to any community. Their 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 375 

gain means the ruin of some mother's son, and their loss is a blessing 
to any town." 

"And you pretend to be a Christian ! Madam, you re an anarchist 
at heart. You are narrow and prejudiced in your views. I spent two 
hours fighting that fire last night, and so did several of these young 
men. I believe we did our duty as public-spirited citizens. Now here 
comes a lady I am sure will agree with me in the opinion that the saloon 
man's rights should be protected just the same as those of the merchant 
or professional man. Madam, your face tells me that you have broad 
views and a womanly heart. Haven't you the deepest sympathy for 
these unfortunate saloon men?" 

The woman was small and faded, with a care-worn face and tear- 
dimmed blue eyes. She sat silent a moment, then rose and clasped her 
hands in a dramatic gesture. 

"Do I sympathize with the saloon men's losses? Listen, and hear 
what the saloon has done for me: 

"Twelve years ago my husband was one of the leading merchants 
of this city. I came here as a bride, and our home was all that heart 
could wish. But my husband formed the habit of drinking, and it grew. 
These saloons were open after business hours, and he would drop in after 
working hours and treat his friends. He began to come home drunk. 
My tears and pleadings were useless, for the temptation was ever before 
him. The habit brought business failure, and our home was sold. We 
live in a shabby little house in a suburb, and there are nights when my 
little girl and I hide in some outhouse until daybreak, fearing to enter 
the house until the drunken fit has worn off. There have been weeks 
when we never saw the one who should be our protector, or knew where 
he was. The saloonkeeper will take care of him as long as he has any 
money. My child and I eke out a living in any way we can. 

"Do I sympathize with the saloon man's losses? No — a thousand 
times NO. The few dollars they lose is a pittance to the losses they 
bring to the helpless. Sympathy? I'd as soon sympathize with the 
midnight assassin, who failed in his aim to take a life ; or with the " 

"East-bound train," called the porter. 

The faded little woman gathered up her bundles and started for the 
door. The stout man and the boys who had tried to preserve the saloon 
men's property silently dispersed. The worm had turned ; the unexpected 
had happened ! — Jennie N. Standif er in Union Signal. 



376 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

A FATHER'S RESPONSIBILITY. 

"On the other side of the ocean, just before I left home last Septem- 
ber, a mother suddenly came into the room where there was a little 
boy six or seven years old, and found that little boy trying to kill a 
baby two years old with the scissors, and she said to the child, 'What 
are you doing?' and he said, 'I want to kill him.' It frightened the 
mother, and she talked to the father about it, and the father took him to 
a doctor, and he took him to a specialist, and that specialist was my 
friend. He examined the child thoroughly, and said to him: 'Why do 
you want to kill the baby; it does not hurt you?' And the boy replied, 
'I want to kill somebody all the time.' And the doctor turned to the 
father, and said, 'Are you a drinking man?' The father said, 'Well, I 
do drink, it is true, but I don't often drink to excess.' The doctor re- 
plied: 'Well, you drink. That boy will kill somebody some day. It is 
in his blood, and your clrinking habit is the cause of it.' You reap what 
you sow. Don't forget it. You are passing on what you are to the next 
generation, and God Almighty will hold some of you men responsible 
for bringing into the world assassins, murderers and cut-throats. Don't 
forget it. What we sow we shall reap.' " — Selected by Church Advocate. 

OVER A GLASS OF WINE. 

They had been introduced, of course, but he spoke to her first at 
dinner. 

"May I pour you a little wine?" he asked. 

"Thank you," she said simply, "a little claret. I drink only claret." 

"You don't care for the sweet wines?" 

"I don't think I really care for any wine, but this is what we drink 
at home. You did not pour any for yourself," she added, a moment later. 

He smiled: "It would be for the first time in my life if I had." 

"How strange !" She looked at him pointblank with a pair of clear 
and very kind eyes. "Have you scruples? Do you think it is wrong?" 

"Well" — he drew a long breath — "hardly. Yet for me it would 
be a wrong." 

The color deepened on her cheek a little. He saw her check back 
a word from her lips, and the shadow that swept over her face was 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 377 

- — - — 

sweeter than any brightness. But he could not appropriate her unmerited 
sympathy. 

"No — no," he declared, laughing slightly. "It is not at all a temp- 
tation to me. I have never known the taste of any sort of liquor. 
I think I have a great advantage against fate in this, and — I mean 
to keep it." 

"Then you are afraid after all." 

"Sometimes we recognize danger though we may not fear it." 

"If it be danger, you must fear it. You do, or you would not take 
precautions." 

He looked down and met her earnest glance. She was forgetting 
her dinner. 

"If you were not afraid," she went on, impulsively, "wine would 
seem to you as harmless as water. It is because you have fear that 
you will not touch it." 

He was at a loss just there. It was difficult to meet her candor 
without a touch of seeming discourtesy. 

"Suppose I drink to your better course ?" she said. A roguish dimple 
showed itself. "This deadly cup has no terror for me." 

He raised his crystal goblet and drank to her in sparkling water, 
saying gently, "But of my cup not one need be afraid." 

There was a pause. She had not lifted the wine to her lips. A 
servant came to remove the course, and someone spoke to her across 
the table. When he could claim her attention again, he was ready with 
a bright remark about the beauty of some roses in a vase near them. 

"Yes — so pretty— pretty," she said, vaguely, and with promise in 
her tone: "We had not exhausted our topic, I think. May I ask — is 
it your conviction that liquor should not be used in any form?" 

"You are unmerciful," he deprecated. "Think how ungracious it 
would seem to object to anything under such surroundings." 

"Never mind about being complimentary," she replied gravely. "I 
have never before given one serious thought to this question of tem- 
perance. The people I live among — and they are all upright, intelligent 
and refined — regard the moderate use of liquor as indispensable. Surely 
you must admit that there are thousands who are not in any way 
injured by its use." 

"I know," he said, quickly, "but there are millions and millions — 
the jails will tell you — the hospitals " 



378 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

He stopped abruptly. 

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "yes ; but why not take the good and 
avoid the evil? We need not become drunkards because we use liquor?" 

He met the appeal of her earnest eyes with a look as earnest. 

"Since you desire it," he answered, steadily, "let me say one word, 
and then, I think, I will say no more. If you never touch liquor, you 
not only need not, you cannot become a drunkard. But if it once crosses 
your lips, the first step is taken." 

There was a long silence between them. The rest of the guests went 
on talking gaily. Presently she spoke, but so low that he had to bend 
his ear to listen. 

"You have given me a wonderful message," she said. She pushed 
aside her glass of wine, and in the simple act he knew there was con- 
secration. — Ladies' Home Journal. 

MORE OF WHISKEY'S WORK. 

Licensed whiskey startled pre-occupied, indifferent New York Satur- 
day, when its latest tragedy transpired. The great papers reported it 
as prominently as war news from Manchuria, and for a few hours the 
horror of the protected liquor traffic at home rivalled sensational cables 
from Asiatic battlefields. It was only one incident of the drink business, 
but it shot a lightning flash of fact across the under world, where the 
traffic is breeding similar tragedies. 

Frank Krijack, of 213 East 73rd Street, "too intoxicated to make a 
statement," sits in a cell at the East 67th Street station, charged with 
beating out the brains of his little three-hour-old baby girl. Under the 
startling two-column head, "Whisky's Work," the American tells the 
facts, among which are the following: 

"In the small, dark bedroom the mother lies sobbing with a two- 
year-old baby girl beside her in the bed. She does not know her husband 
is charged with murder, but believes the babe died by her side, and con- 
stantly asks when her husband will return. 

"At the East 67th Street police station the husband, Frank Krijack, 
is held without bail on a charge of homicide. He was too intoxicated to 
make a statement. 

"According to statements to the police, Krijack, a large and muscular 
man thirty-six years old, came home at 9 o'clock yesterday morning in 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 379 

a state of intoxication, and when he heard that his wife had given birth 
to a girl, took the baby from her arms, carried it to the adjoining room, 
and, after upbraiding his wife for giving birth to a girl when his heart 
was set upon a boy, took the new-born babe by the legs, swung it 
around and tossed it into the adjoining room, where its head struck a 
sofa. Then he left home. The child died a few minutes later. 

"The police records hold no parallel of a case where destitution, 
debauch and death met together under such pitiable, and at the same 
time, brutally criminal conditions. 

"Mrs. Krijack is a comely, black-haired woman about thirty years 
old. She has been married nine years. In 1898 their first baby was 
born, a girl, who is now seven years old. Another girl came two years 
later, but died when eight months old. The third child, another little 
girl, was born two years ago. 

"Krijack started from his home at 2 o'clock yesterday morning for 
his work. His wife was then ill, and a woman neighbor came in. 

"Mrs. Rice, Mrs. O'Leary and Mrs. Mary Simpson, the janitress, 
waited upon the mother and dressed the baby. Then the mother was 
given whiskey in milk until she was well under the influence of drink. 
Mrs. Rice and Mrs. O'Leary drank freely, and it was soon known 
throughout the house by the loud talk, screams and laughter, that a 
drunken orgie was in full swing in the Krijack's rooms. 

"'Why doesn't my husband come?' asked Mrs. Krijack last night. 
'My poor little baby is dead. I am so unfortunate.' 

" 'When I woke up and felt my little baby's mouth, it was cold, and 
I knew that she was dead. I am so unfortunate. But the doctors said 
it was sickly and could not live. When will my husband be home? He 
will be home soon, I know.' " 

What can not be forgotten in this connection, is the startling fact 
that there are ten thousand places in this great city where the poison 
responsible for this tragedy is being sold night and day as freely as 
milk, under the sanction and protection of law. And the surprise when- 
ever a case like this comes to hand, is not that it happened, but that it 
did not happen before. And all the while one of these terrible stories 
is getting into print, ten thousand other stories as sad, as heartless and 
as inevitable as this one, but hidden in the privacy of stricken homes, 
are being written in the hearts of the motherhood and childhood of the 



380 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

metropolis, who must suffer on in silence while the people compromise 
with wrong for a revenue bribe. 

The startling fact is, however, that the newspapers are telling the 
truth about whiskey in their news columns as never before. When a 
great metropolitan journal puts "WHISKY'S WORK" in its news lines, 
it is a remarkable evidence of the progress of the great reform in liquor's 
mightiest stronghold. The agitation is spreading beyond the confines 
of church and party, and by the very fiendness of the traffic itself, now 
commands "leader" space in the great dailies of the metropolis. — The 
Advance. 

JOHN G. WOOLLEY'S CONVERSION. 

Thirteen years ago John G. Woolley, the distinguished temperance 
lecturer and eloquent Prohibitionist, was a helpless, hopeless victim of 
the appetite for strong drink. Although he was the possessor of one 
of the brightest intellects in his profession, and commanded a law prac- 
tice worth $25,000 a year, and was the master of an eloquence that 
enabled him to sway audiences at will, yet he had fallen to the very 
depths of woe and helplessness. 

How he rose out of this helpless, hopeless state Is told by his own 
pen in the Ram's Horn, and we give it below in the hope that it may 
be used to help other poor souls who are still held by the grip of a like 
habit, more remorseless and firm than the chains that bound Prometheus 
to the rock on Mount Caucasus. Mr. Woolley says : 

"It is enough to say, and so much, I think, is perfectly true, that I 
went to bed on the night of the 30th of January, 1888, perfectly con- 
scious that I was a slave of alcohol and ruined beyond retrieve. I had 
had many chances, and had forfeited them all. I had suffered beyond 
any power of description, but had never acknowledged myself beaten. 
But this was defeat — utter, merciless, hopeless. No business offer 
would have tempted me to try again. I knew the old fight was done, 
and that the next thing was to be something else — death or something. 
Every fiber of me quivered with a sense of something new impending. 
I thought the situation over with the desperate calm that I have seen 
in men who, waiting in their cells with the eye of the death-watch at the 
wicket, listened to the finishing strokes upon the gallows that at day- 
break was to end all. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 381 

"I had had high ideals, but no principles, and had drifted to ruin, 
not only against reason and interest, but against inclination, for lack 
of landmarks. I saw this clearly. Shame and sorrow unutterable sub- 
merged me like a tidal wave. I prayed. Despair made me do it ; nothing 
else. I had no creed, 'no faith/ I suffered, that was all. The cry 
brought help. T remembered God,' and' my broken heart yearned toward 
him as if I had always known him. The Spirit bore witness with my 
spirit that I was born of him, not because of anything that was happen- 
ing then (the whole experience was absolutely void of any definitions 
or any 'theology'), but just because I WAS. 

"What followed was simply a decision that seemed to be endorsed 
by omnipotence. I knew it was final. I wakened my wife and told her. 
Her faith was instantaneous and as conclusive as my own. The decision 
drew, like a magnet, scriptures that I had learned in childhood, 
experiences that had not interested me before, sermons and teachings, 
and old feelings of my own, long lost in mind'. We rose from our bed, 
brought from my trunk a little Bible given me by my mother on my 
fourteenth birthday, which, by some good providence, had clung to me 
through all the years, opened it at random, and read the forty-third 
chapter of Isaiah, which begins like the roll of a great organ : 'But 
now thus said the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed 
thee, O Israel; fear not for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee 
by my name ; thou art mine.' And when the sun rose that morning, we 
two were bending over that book, weeping together." — Religious 
Telescope. 

IN THE DIVES OF ST. LOUIS. 

If the people of this land could go with us in our midnight work 
through the dives of this city and behold the thousands of young men 
and women who have been wrecked by the accursed liquor traffic, surely 
every honorable man in America would vote to put this evil out of 
existence. 

Many new faces, beautiful young girls, are found in these resorts 
that were not here before the Fair opened. According to their state- 
ments, a large number of them have come from a distance. Some of 
them weep bitterly as we talk to them, and they say they were once 
Christians, that they have good homes and parents, and their parents 
do not know they are in such places. 



382 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

We asked one young girl how she came to be in the place. She 
said she came to the Fair and got in with some bad people. The tears 
rolled down her cheeks as she told us she had a father and three 
brothers at home who were never in a place of that kind. 

O, fathers and brothers, do you realize that you are voting for and 
protecting these vile resorts which exist only to capture and ruin your 
daughters and sisters ? Could the fathers and brothers of that girl have 
heard the language which was addressed to her by these half-drunken, 
inhuman creatures who thronged the place and witnessed their indecent 
actions toward her and other girls, we believe they would have deter- 
mined vengeance against the saloon and 1 brothel. 

As we plead with the girl to go home with us and she seemed about 
to yield, we were surrounded by a crowd of toughs who separated us and 
hurried her out of the room. At this point the proprietor, who was the 
saloonkeeper, came up and angrily ordered us to leave the place, and 
said he paid his license and we had no right to interfere with his business, 
and we were told that a policeman would be called if we did not go. The 
saloonkeeper was right. The voters of our land have given him per- 
mission to keep open these death-traps and to furnish the drugged wines 
and other liquors by which young girls are rendered powerless and are 
ruined, and doubtless the father and brothers of that poor, debauched 
girl by their votes helped to wreck her life. O, it is terrible ! God help 
men and women of this land to arouse, and fight this curse of our land 
as never before. 

On Saturday night, May 21, two women who were out in slum work, 
were walking along Pine Street. They passed a saloon where a crowd 
of men were standing. A carriage stood by the walk and in it sat a 
young girl. A man stood trying to get her to say something. The girl 
was either under the influence of liquor or drugs, and was almost in an 
unconscious condition. The ladies turned to her and asked her if she 
were sick. The man who looked to be a coachman, replied sharply that 
she was not sick, that she was only waiting for her friend who would 
soon be there. The ladies insisted that there was something the matter 
with the girl, and one of them said to her: "My dear, where is your 
home?" The driver turned to her and said fiercely: "It is none of your 
business where her home is." She replied : "It is my business." Before 
the women could say another word, much less call a policeman, and 
there was none to be seen in the neighborhood, the man leaped into the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 383 

carriage, plied the whip to the horses, and was soon out of sight. While 
these rescue workers had been talking to this man, every man in front 
of the saloon had disappeared. The devil is about his business whether 
people know it or not. — Gospel Message. 

WHY HE SWORE OFF. 

"No, I won't drink with you to-day, boys!" said a drummer to 
several companions, as they settled down in the smoking-car and passed 
the bottle. "The fact is, boys, I have quit drinking — I've sworn off." 

His words were greeted by shouts of laughter by the jolly crowd 
around him; they put the bottle under his nose and indulged in many 
jokes at his expense, but he refused to drink, and was rather serious 
about it. 

"What is the matter with you, old boy?" sang out one. "If you've 
sworn off drinking, something is up ; tell us what it is." 

"Well, boys, I will, although I know you'll laugh at me. But I'll 
tell you all the same. I have been a drinking man all my life, ever 
since I was married; as you all know, I love whiskey — it's as sweet in 
my mouth as sugar — and God only knows how I'll quit it. For seven 
years not a day has passed over my head that I didn't have at least one 
drink. But I am done. Yesterday I was in Chicago. On South Clark 
Street a customer of mine keeps a pawnshop in connection with other 
branches of business. Well, I called on him, and while I was there, a 
young man not more than twenty-five, wearing threadbare clothes, and 
looking as hard as if he hadn't seen a sober day for a month, came in 
with a little package in his hand. Tremblingly he unwrapped it, and 
handed the article to the pawnbroker, saying: 

" 'Give me ten cents.' 

"And boys, what do you suppose it was? A pair of baby shoes, 
little things with the buttons only a trifle soiled, as if they had been 
worn only once or twice. 

" 'Where did you get these?' asked the pawnbroker. 

" 'Got 'em at home,' replied the man, who had an intelligent face and 
the manner of a gentleman, despite his sad condition. 'My — my wife 
bought them for our baby. Give me ten cents for 'em — I want a drink.' 

" 'You had better take the shoes back to your wife ; the baby will 
need them/ said the pawnbroker. 



384 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

" 'No, she won't, because — because she's dead. She's lying at home 
now — died last night.' 

"As he said this, the poor fellow broke down, bowed his head on the 
showcase, and cried like a child. 

"Boys," said the drummer, "you can laugh if you please, but I — I 
have a baby of my own at home, and I swear I'll never drink another 
drop." 

Then he got up and went into another car. His companions glanced 
at each other in silence; no one laughed; the bottle disappeared; and 
soon each was sitting in a seat by himself reading a newspaper. — Chicago 
Record-Herald. 

A LESSON OF PATHOS FROM THE POLICE COURT. 

For twenty years or more he had stood in the police court now and 
then, to answer the charge of being intoxicated, and he was there again 
yesterday afternoon. The bloated face and the bloodshot eyes Were 
silent witnesses of the offense he had committed so often, and the untidy 
and unkempt raiment, mute evidence of the downfall of a man who might 
have been a good and useful citizen. 

He offered no defense, no excuse, for he knew of the tale-evidence 
of the silent, mute witnesses of his dissipation, and that no corroborative 
testimony was needed to stamp the seal of guilt upon him. 

Once in the past, some time ago, he had stood by the side of a 
smiling maiden, whose heart beat rapidly to the chimes of the wedding 
bells. Children's voices had made sweet music in his home. Love and 
hope had waked ambition's dearest dreams. 

And then the same old story of temptation and weakness and 
drink, and the going down step by step, lower and lower, until nothing 
but the abyss of the grave itself was left. 

Many years has the maiden who smiled when the wedding bells 
were ringing, been at rest under the kindly sod and the pitying violets. 
Her broken heart was mercifully given the rest and peace of the tomb. 

It was said that when she passed away, that his only friend was 
gone, and there would be none to help him when he was dragged to 
the police court, and the chain gang was staring him in the face, for 
until her wearied soul laid down the burdens of life, she never forsook 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 385 

him, and time and again she paid the court fines with the money she 
had earned with needle and thread. 

When he stood in the police court yesterday afternoon, the judge 
said: 

"I hate to fine you. I remember you when I was a little boy, and 
the story of your life is well known to me. I can do nothing, however, 
except what the law demands of me. The fine is three dollars and the 
cost of court." 

There was sitting in the court a man who had been a schoolmate 
of the prisoner at the bar. He had not seen him in many years, and 
he whispered to the judge: 

"I don't suppose there is anyone to pay his fine, for I hear his 
faithful wife has been dead for a long while. I hate to see him go to 
the chain-gang." 

From the crowd of spectators in the courtroom a little boy came, 
a lad, who was not more than a child, and he slipped his hand into that 
of the prisoner and led him away, saying to the officer : 

"I will pay father's fine." 

The lad earns a small salary as cashboy in a city store. 

Despite the bloated features, the bloodshot eyes and the palsied 
limbs, his old father still; the years ago, when that father held him in 
his arms or led him as he toddled by his side, were not forgotten. 

The grave under the sod and the violets had not hid the poor 
creature's only friend. — Atlanta Constitution. 

A STRAIGHT TRANSACTION. 

"The proof of the application of the word of God," says William 
Taylor, "is the radical change it produces in the hearts and lives of 
those who receive it. I knew a man in the bounds of the second circuit 
of my ministry by the name of Beck. When awakened by the Holy 
Spirit at a camp-meeting near his residence, he said to himself, as I 
heard him repeat subsequently, T am a rebel against God. I ought to 
abandon sin, and return to God, and be saved. I am a distiller. All I 
am worth I have put in my new distillery. I can't be a distiller and be 
a Christian. If I give up my distillery, I will become bankrupt and 
beggar my family. If I hold on to it, and go on destroying my neigh- 
bors with whiskey, I will lose my soul. I don't want to beggar my 



386 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

family, but I can't afford to destroy myself. I must have salvation at 
any cost/ So he came and knelt down as a seeker, and began at once, 
in the greatest simplicity, to state his case in prayer to God, about as 
follows : 'Lord, you know me, you know what a wicked sinner I am, 
and what a mean business I am in. All I am worth is in the still-house, 
which I have just opened. It has not done much harm yet, and I have 
made no money out of it ; Lord, I can't afford to lose my soul, so if you 
will have mercy on me and save me to-night, and trust me until morning, 
I will drag the still out of the house and' put it where it will never 
be used for distilling liquor. I would do it to-night, but I can not; and 
I can't risk my soul unsaved till morning. You have said, Now is the 
accepted time ; behold now is the day of salvation. I surrender myself, 
soul and body, to thee, now, and I receive and trust Jesus Christ to save 
me now.' 

"It was a straight transaction, and God saved him that night. Next 
morning, before breakfast, he removed the still, and had it laid beside 
his dwelling, and there it lay when I saw it a couple of years after- 
wards. He would not sell it to be used by any one for distilling 
alcoholic drinks. 

"He said that God converted him on credit, and he meant to carry 
out his part of the agreement to the end. Yet he did not beggar his 
family. He converted his still-house into a grist mill, and made a fair 
support. Years afterwards he went to the mines of California, made 
money, returned to Virginia and bought a farm, remained true to God 
and prospered." — Selected by Way of Faith. 

FERMENTED WINE AT THE SACRAMENT. 

I have ten children, and not one of them has ever tasted intoxicating 
drink, and I tremble at the thought that their first taste should be from 
my hand and as a memorial of the Saviour's dying love. 

In the midst of my perplexity a mother came to me, whose boy 
was at a public school. Drink had been a great curse to the family, 
and the mother's first thought was to shield her boy from the family 
curse, and she trained him to hate drink. He wrote home, saying that 
there had been a revival in the school, and that he and others of the 
scholars had found the Saviour, and that it was proposed that all who 
had found the Saviour should receive the Lord's Supper together. He 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 387 

said, "I should like to do this, but they say it is intoxicating wine, and 
I have promised you that I will not touch it. Tell me, mother, what I 
must do." 

This led me to see clearly that it could not be according to the mind 
of Christ that so many thousands of young people and hundreds of those 
who had been rescued from drunkenness should be led into temptation. 

I read Rom. 14, and I could not help but feel that it covered the 
whole ground, especially taking with it Rom. 15: 1, 2, 3, 4 ,and 1 Cor. 8. 
We are not to put a stumbling-block or occasion to fall in our brother's 
way. We are not to please ourselves. Those of us who are strong, are 
to bear the infirmities of the weak. 

I mentioned the matter to the stewards, and they saw with me. 
We are strong. Drink had never been a snare to us, and it was a joy to 
us to imitate Christ. We have used the "fruit of the vine" ever since. 
The custom is steadily spreading in all the churches, and must spread 
wherever intelligent Christian principle is supreme. 

All Christ directed was that the fruit of the vine should be used. 
This we have, and those who take brandied port (and there is no port 
that is not brandied) are never sure that what they take has any 
relation to the vine. So that, as the Archbishop of York is reported to 
have said when his opinion was asked on the subject, "You who take 
port wine may be right; you who take the juice of the grape cannot 
be wrong." — Rev. Charles Garrett in Way of Faith. 

PATHETIC CASE. 

The thought of death alone is sad, but sadder still is it to die far 
away from home, without having your dear loved ones to comfort you 
in your last moments. Such was the sad ending of Oscar B. Byor, who 
die'd in East Jordan, November 1, 1908, aged 48 years, 3 months, 4 days. 
His body was shipped to his sister at Girard. 

Ten years ago the late Oscar Byor left his home because temptations 
for drink were great. He resolved to get away and make a man of him- 
self, but instead he found that after leaving his dear brothers and sisters, 
his temptations were greater on account of the enticing evil elements. 
Many a time he had resolved to brace up, but evil companions urged him 
on and robbed him of his last cent. Money was sent him by his brothers 



388 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and placed in the hands of another party with instructions to give it to 
him only when sober. His so-called friends would sober him up only to 
get his money. As long as he had money he was their friend, but when 
the last cent was spent and he was overcome by their evil water, then 
he was kicked out on the street like a dog. They well knew his circum- 
stances and weakness. Would they refuse him drink and help the poor 
man brace up? No! Instead, they helped bring him to his grave. 

Sad, indeed, are the letters written to G. A. Meyer, Superintendent 
of Poor, by sisters and brothers of this man regarding his life. Although 
knowing of his weakness, they loved him dearly, and tried to do all that 
was in their power for their poor, unfortunate brother, and if there is 
anyone to answer for the downfall of this one, it will be these men of 
evil intent. Woe unto them! 

This widespread evil, drunkenness, is every day contributing directly 
or indirectly to the wretchedness of the people, doing its share of 
damage to the body and injury to the soul. No evil among us menaces 
so badly the peace, prosperity, happiness, moral and religious welfare of 
our people as the evil of drinking. No other social evil disturbs the 
family relations, and renders the domestic life of men, women and 
children so inhuman and hopeless as the indulgence in strong drinks. 

The drunkard squanders his honor and family happiness. How 
many fathers of families might have a happy home and enjoy a delight- 
ful family life if it were not for this great evil of drunkenness? Indeed, 
great is the misery which the evil of drunkenness brings upon a family. 
A home becomes a half hell where it might have been a paradise. Pov- 
erty, want and distress take the place of comfort ; grief and sorrow bring- 
ing the wife to an early grave. 

Remembering how great is the dignity of the human soul, possessed 
as it is, of the light that streams down from above in the gift of reason, 
we are filled with horror at its destruction by intemperance. Appreciat- 
ing, as we do, the dignity of human nature, we are struck dumb at the 
awful destitution of it that takes place by the act of drunkenness. As 
the cup draws nearer to craving lips, the angels weep and the devils 
laugh. 

This dark and dreary valley is filling up with neglected graves, over 
each of which experience and truth have united to place this mournful 
inscription, "Here lies the wreck of what was once the noblest handiwork 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 389 

of God — a man with the immortal soul redeemed by the blood of Christ. 
It has been shed for him in vain." 

Statistics given by the Superintendent of Poor show that 75 pet 
cent of the inmates of county institutions become paupers through the 
use of liquor, 20 per cent through inheritance of this evil, and the other 
5 per cent become inmates because they have neither friends nor relatives 
left to help them in misfortune or old age. 

The Superintendent of the Poor comes in contact with many pitiful 
cases and must contend with many undesirable conditions. 

Who is to blame? 

What are you going to do about it ? — J. A. Popolinski in The Boyne 
Citizen. 

ROBERT JOLLEY'S TRAGEDY. 

Over in the city of Indianapolis there was a bright-faced girl of 
nine, little Gladys Jolley. She was murdered by her father, Robert 
Jolley, in a most diabolical fashion. The Indianapolis Sun tells the 
story of how this crime came to be committed in the following brief 
words: "For some days Jolley had been drinking." The Indianapolis 
Star enlarges upon this whisky-drinking murderer as follows: "Jolley 
had been arrested many times for drunkenness." In another place the 
statement is made that he has once had delirium tremens. On June 
12th, just past, when he went home, he was met at the gate by his sweet 
little girl, who threw her arms around his neck and said that she was 
glad that her papa had come. This man who, through drink, was lost 
to every sense of paternal love, took his little child, the offspring 
of his own heart, up to her room, and there amid her dolls and playthings, 
forced carbolic acid down her throat until her hazel eyes were closed in 
death. Neighbors heard her screams, as she said : "Papa, papa, please 
don't do this !" But it was of no avail. The angelic life of this sweet 
baby girl was snuffed out in a brief space of time, and another horrible 
tragedy was added to the long line of murders for which the liquor 
traffic is responsible. — Vanguard. 

DRANK NO MORE TEARS. 

In several places in the Psalms the metaphor is used of the beverage 
of tears, but how often in real life is the custom of drinking the tears of 



390 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

their wives and children, fulfilled in the lives of intemperate husbands 
and fathers ? In 1885, in Arkansas, this scene was enacted : 

John Speeler, an old toper of long standing and capacity, on being 
invited by some of his boon companions to "take a drink," replied, "Boys, 
I won't drink without you take what I do." The "boys" were surprised. 

"The idea," said one of them, "that you should prescribe for us. 
Perhaps you want us to drink one of your mixtures. You are a boss 
mixer and I won't agree to it." 

"Perhaps he wants to run some castor oil on us," said another. 

"No, I'm square — honor bright. Take my drink, boys, and I am 
with you." 

They agreed, and ranged themselves along the bar. All looked at 
Speeler. 

"Mr. Bartender," said he, "give me a glass of water." 

"What? Water?" 

"Yes, water. It's a new drink to me, boys, I admit, and it's a 
scarce article around here, I expect. But let me tell you about it. A 
few days ago a party of us went fishing. We took a fine share of 
whiskey along and had a jolly time. Along toward evening I got power- 
ful drunk and crawled off under a tree and went to sleep. The boys 
drank up all the whiskey and came back to town. They thought it a 
good joke 'cause they left me out there and told it around the- town with 
a big laugh. My son got hold of the report and told it at home. I lay 
under that tree all night, and when I woke in the morning, my wife sat 
right there side of me. She said nothin' when I woke up, but turned 
her head away. I could see she was a-cryin'. T wish I had suthin' 
to drink/ says I. Then she took a cup wot she fetched with her and 
went to a spring that was near and fotched it full. 

"Jest as she was handin' it to me, she leant over to hide her eyes, 
and I saw a tear drop inter the cup. I tuk and drank, and raisin' my 
hands to heaven I vowed, God helping me, I'd never drink my wife's 
tears again, as I had been doin' for the last twenty years, and that I was 
goin' to stop. You boys know who it was that left me. You all was 
in the gang. Give me another glass of water, Mr. Bartender." — Union 
Signal. 

JONATHAN RIGDON'S MONUMENT. 

"Jonathan Rigdon died very poor, didn't he, deacon?" I said. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 391 

"Yes, they buried him in a pauper's grave. Poor Rigdon ! And 
he had a big heart," said the deacon. "He spent his whole life and a 
big fortune building a monument to another man." 

"Was the monument ever finished, deacon?" 

"Yes, and Jonathan did it." 

"How?" 

"Well," said the deacon sadly, "Jonathan commenced it early. He 
commenced putting money into the monument at seventeen and finished 
it at fifty." 

"And he gave his whole time to it?* 

"Yes, he worked night and day, oftt\i all night long, and on the 
Sabbath. He seemed to be in a great hurry to get it done. He spent all 
the money he earned upon it — some say $5,000. Then he borrowed 
all he could; and when no one would loan him any more, he would take 
his wife's dresses and the bed clothes and many other valuable things in 
his home and sell them to get more money to finish the monument." 

"How self-sacrificing!" 

"Yes, Jonathan sacrificed everything for this monument," said the 
deacon sadly. "He came home one day and was about to take the 
blankets that lay over his sleeping baby, and his wife tried to stop him ; 
but he drew back his fist and knocked her down, and then went away 
with the blankets and never brought them back, and the poor baby 
sickened and died from the exposure. At last there was nothing left in 
the house. The poor heartbroken wife soon followed the baby to the 
grave. Yet Jonathan kept working all the more at the monument. I 
saw him when he was about fifty years old. The monument was nearly 
done; but he had worked so at it that I hardly knew him, he was so 
worn ; his clothes were all in tatters, his face and nose were terribly 
swollen. And the wretched man had been so little in good society all 
the while that he was building that he had about forgotten how to use 
the English language ; his tongue had somehow become very thick, and 
when he tried to speak, out would come an oath." 

"But the good man did finally accomplish his great work?" I said. 

"Yes, he finished it," said the deacon, his eyes moistening with tears. 

"Oh, I should so like to see it," I said. 

"Come with me," said my informant sadly, "and I will show it to 
you. It stands in a beautiful part of the city where five streets meet. 



392 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Most men put such things in a cemetery. But John had his own way, 
and put it in one of the finest lots to be found." 

"Does it look like Grant's monument?" 

"Yes, it's a good deal like Grant's monument. It is a grand house. 
There it is — look at it!" said the deacon, pointing to a beautiful man- 
sion. "See! it is high and large, with great walls and fireplaces, and 
such velvet carpets, and oh, what mirrors ! Isn't it rich and grand?" 

"And who lives in it, deacon?" 

"Why, the man who sold Jonathan Rigdon nearly all the whiskey he 
drank. He lives there with his family, and they wear the richest and the 
finest clothes, and " 

"And poor Jonathan?" 

"Why, he's in the paupers' graveyard. Alas !" sighed the deacon, 
"the world is full of such monuments built by poor drunkards who broke 
the hearts of devoted wives and starved sweet children to do it." — The 
New Voice. 

A TOUCHING LETTER. 

My Dear Son : What would you think of yourself, if you should 
come to our bedside every night and, waking up, tell us that you would 
not allow us to sleep any more? That is just what you are doing, and 
that is why I am up here a little after midnight writing to you. Your 
mother is nearly worn out, and sighing because you won't let her sleep — 
that mother who nursed you in your infancy, toiled for you in your 
childhood, and looked upon you with pride and joy when you were 
growing up to manhood, as she counted on the comfort and support 
you would give her in her declining years. 

We read of a most barbarous manner in which one of the Oriental 
nations punishes some of its criminals. It is by cutting the flesh from 
the limbs, beginning with the fingers and toes, one joint at a time, till 
the wretched victim dies. That is just what you are doing. You have 
planted many of the white hairs now appearing so thickly in her head 
before the time. Your cruel hand is drawing the lines of sorrow on her 
face, making her look prematurely old. You might as well stick your 
knife into her body every time you come near her, for your conduct is 
stabbing her to the heart. You might as well bring her coffin and force 
her into it, for you are pressing her toward it with very rapid steps. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 393 

Would you tread on her body if prostrated on the floor? And yet with 
ungrateful foot you are treading on her heart and crushing out its life 
and joy — no, I needn't say "joy," for that is a word we have long 
ceased to use, because you have taken it from us. Of course, we have 
to meet our friends with smiles, but they little know of the bitterness 
within. 

You have taken all the roses out of your sister's pathway and scat- 
tered thorns instead, and, from the pain they inflict, scalding tears are 
often seen coursing down her cheeks. Thus you are blighting her life 
as well as ours. 

And what can you promise yourself for the future? Look at the 
miserable, bloated, ragged wretches that you see every day on the 
streets, and behold in them an exact picture of what you are fast coming 
to and will be in a few years hence. Then in the end a drunkard's 
grave and a drunkard's doom! For the Bible says that no drunkard 
shall inherit the kingdom of God. Where, then, will you be, if not in 
the kingdom of God? 

Will not these considerations induce you to reform at once? And 
may God help you in the effort, for he can and will if you earnestly 
ask him. 

Your affectionate but sorrow-stricken Father. 

— Way of Faith. 

THE CAPTAIN'S METHOD. 

The papers tell of a soldier in the Philippines who discourses upon 
a new cure for drunkenness among the soldiers. "We have," he says, 
"a lot of native soldiers enlisted here. When one of the white boys get 
drunk, the captain puts a native soldier over him, and the native puts 
on lots of airs while marching him around. It grinds the boys so that 
they wouldn't get drunk if they could." — National Advocate. 

THE LIQUOR DEALER'S DIARY. 

No man can injure others without injuring or imperiling himself. 
In some way or other injury wrought upon others is sure to recoil upon 
the heads of those concerned in it. Sometimes it is through the evident 
relation of cause and effect ; at other times it is through the equally 
evident interposition of the retributive providence of God, whose curse 



394 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

is upon the habitations of evil-doers, and upon all their gains and pos- 
sessions. 

It is not a light thing to incur the wrath of God which is revealed 
from heaven against all ungodliness. It is not a light thing to brave 
the judgments of the Almighty which are "true and righteous altogether." 
He who will not heed God's counsel may be brought to consider and 
heed his judgments, to hear the rod and him who hath appointed it. 

Perhaps in no line of human conduct are the judgments of God more 
strikingly manifest than in his dealings with men who engage in the 
traffic of strong drink. 

In many instances their enormous possessions take wings and fly 
away; their gains are cursed; their families are ruined by evil habits and 
associations ; constitutions are broken ; minds and bodies are wrecked ; 
and sudden and premature death closes the earthly career of men who 
engage in this horrible and accursed business. 

Any life insurance company insuring at ordinary rates the lives of 
men concerned in the drink traffic, would certainly be bankrupted by 
their enormous death rate. This has been proven true in England by 
actual experiment. Some of the best life insurance companies utterly 
refuse to insure the lives of liquor dealers on any terms. 

Let a man study this subject in the light of facts easily obtainable, 
and he will find these statements to be true; and if some of the men 
engaged in the liquor business could be made aware of the facts and 
statistics which are extant on this' subject, they would get out of the 
liquor business as Lot got out of Sodom. Now and then a man gets his 
eyes open to the true state of the case, and makes haste to escape the 
clutches of the adversary before it is too l?te. 

"Not long ago," said Mr. Stewart, "a young man, a spirit merchant, 
built a large house in the country, and was retiring from business. When 
he first told me of his intention, I was much surprised, for he was very 
young, and I remarked to him : 'Surely the spirit traffic is a paying 
business when you are able to retire so soon.' 'No/ he answered, 'it is 
not that; I have retired from it through fear.' And then he went on to 
tell me that he was a wholesale merchant, and sold to many retail 
dealers. He had a diary kept in which he entered all the names and 
ages of his customers, and when and how they died and he said: 

'I watched, with deep regret, many of those who came into this 
business, gradually slipping downward. When I called on some before 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 395 

eleven o'clock in the morning, they were so stupefied by drink that they 
were scarcely able to conduct business. One morning, on looking 
through my diary, I was struck with the number of names I had 
entered there as having died suddenly through the effect of strong 
drink. From that moment I shut the book and resolved that I would 
be done with this demon that was bringing so many promising young 
men suddenly and early to fill drunkards' graves.' " — The Safeguard. 

WHO IS THE CRIMINAL? 

A ragged, shivering little boy was brought before a magistrate for 
stealing a loaf of bread from a grocer's window. The grocer himself 
was the informer. The judge was about to pass sentence on the little 
wretch, when a kind lawyer offered the following considerations in 
mitigation of his offence : 

"The child is the eldest of a miserable group. Their mother is an 
incorrigible sot; their father lies in a drunkard's grave. This morning, 
when the act was committed, the mother lay drunk upon the floor, and 
her children were crying around her for bread. The eldest boy, unable 
to bear such misery any longer, rushed from the hovel, resolved to obey 
that paramount law of nature which teaches us the principle of self- 
preservation even in disregard to the law of the land. He seized the 
penny loaf from the grocer's window, and, returning to that wretched 
home, spread the unexpected morsel before his hungry brothers, and 
bade them eat and live. He did not eat himself. No; consciousness of 
the crime and fears of detection furnished a more engrossing feeling 
than that of hunger. The last morsel was scarcely swallowed before 
the officer of justice entered the door. The little thief was pointed out 
by the grocer, and he was conducted before the public tribunal. In the 
midst of such misery as this, with the motive of this little criminal before 
us, there is something to soften the heart of man, though I deny not that 
the act is a penal offence. 

"But the tale is by no means told. This little circle, now utterly 
fallen and forlorn, is the wreck of a family once prosperous, temperate, 
frugal, industrious, and happy. The father, strange as it may appear, 
was once a professor of religion. The very first drop of that accursed 
tincture of destruction which conducted him through the path of cor- 
ruption to the grave was handed to him by the very grocer who now 



396 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

pursues the starving' child of his former victim for stealing a penny loaf. 
The farm became encumbered ; the community turned its back upon the 
miserable victim of intemperance; the church expelled him from the 
communion; the wife sought in the same tremendous remedy for all 
distracting care an oblivion of her domestic misery. Home became a 
hell, whose only outlet was the grave. 

"All this aggregate of human wretchedness was produced by this 
very grocer who sold the man liquor. He has murdered the father, he 
has brutalized the mother, he has beggared the children, he has taken 
possession of the farm, and now prosecutes the child for stealing a loaf 
to keep his brothers from starving ! 

"But all this is lawful and right; that is, it is according to law. 
He had stood upon his license. The theft of a penny loaf by a starving 
boy, where his father laid down his last farthing for rum, is a penal 
offence !" — The Pioneer. 

WHOSE FAULT. 

In his address last evening, Mr. Elwood presented to his audience 
the scene of a little boy ten years old, in the city of Wilmington, Dela- 
ware, who had been made intoxicated by his father, then taken out and 
laid on a lot covered with gasoline and set on fire. 

"The little boy was burned, and seriously burned," continued Mr. 
Elwood, "but he was rescued from his fiendish father who was himself 
drunk, taken to the hospital and cared for so that he regained part of his 
faculties, although he was maimed for life. 

"When brought to the court, his father presented the excuse, T was 
drunk/ and the court took recognition of the excuse and was lenient 
with him. 

"Whose fault was it that the boy was made drunk? The father's, 
we might say. Whose fault was it that the father was drunk? The 
father's own fault, we might say. Whose fault was it that the father 
was sold drink that made him drunk? The saloonkeeper's, we might say. 
Whose fault was it that the saloonkeeper sold him the drink? The 
legislature, we might say. Whose fault was it that the legislature 
granted the saloonkeeper the right to sell drink? The people, who put 
the legislature into operation, we might say. 

"Therefore, the people who voted for the legislature that made the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 397 

saloon possible, were the ones who were to blame for that boy being 
burned nearly to death." 

"I am not here to-night to denounce any one, but I am here to state 
facts, and if these facts should hurt any one, I trust they will blame the 
facts, not me. 

"The man who drinks in this age is a fool, for all the business 
activities require a clear brain, and the man who drinks injures his 
business capabilities. 

"I would say to young men, especially, 'Leave drink alone if you 
want to be successful in business/ I would say to young women, 'Leave 
the man who drinks alone, if you desire a happy married life/ I would 
say to the young men also, 'Leave alone the girl who drinks, if you 
would have a happy home/ 

"Drink robs more homes of their happiness than all the other evils 
of earth put together." 

"Whenever I see a saloonkeeper, I say, 'Poor Fellow/ I say 'poor' 
because his business puts a social line about him that prevents him from 
enjoying the clean, the pure and the beautiful. 

"The man in the business of making drunkards is more to be pitied 
than censured, because of the loss of true living that he suffers in this 
world and the damnation which is surely his in the next. 

"The legislator who votes to license the liquor iniquity puts a stain 
on his character, sears his own conscience, and opens wide the door of 
suspicion that there is money in it for him. Very few men in the state 
legislatures to-day vote to license the liquor traffic just because they 
believe that the business should be carried on. 

"The voter who goes to the polls to-day has a great responsibility 
upon him, and he will recognize the liquor traffic as the most destructive 
agency to the homes, and political purity will not only vote against it, 
but will work and pray and give until the day dawns when the saloons 
shall have flown away, and we shall have a land where the law makes it 
impossible for men to rob their neighbors through the evils of this 
beverage traffic." — Advance. 

HIS MOTHER'S CRUSADE. 

John G. Woolley once told the following: "In 1874 I saw my mother 
kneeling in the snow to pray at a saloon door, and I crept out by a side 



398 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

way, stepping softly on the sawdust, ashamed of her. That day's work 
cost her her life, but the saloon did not even pause, and her only child 
sped downward to the hell, of darkness ; but that snow-set prayer per- 
sisted at God's throne through thirteen awful years, and importunity he 
could but always hear and when I 'would' He spoke to me and speaks — 
and will speak on and on until on some sweet Christmas -eve, I find 
my mother's arm again, and leaning on her great heart, celebrate the 
end of that crusade." — Selected. 

THE TWIN EVILS. 

The California Voice has for some time been turning the light on 
the "Red Light" sections of Los Angeles, and showing the close con- 
nection between the infamous traffic in drink and the no less infamous 
traffic in girls, and so vividly has this been done, that even the editors 
of liquor papers express themselves as shocked at the revelation of the 
Voice, and the way they express themselves in the columns of their 
papers only show that the liquor business and the traffic in girls are 
associated evils which flourish or die together. 

Here is how the Wholesale and Retailer's Review gives relief to its 
pent-up feelings : 

"The prohibitionists are trying to do away with all commerce of the 
'red light' type — a misguided fight. We agree with the world's great 
scientists, that this form of vice should be under strict inspection, pos- 
sibly under license, as in Paris. This is the way to protect society. But 
there should be a way to protect society against obscene publication." 

No one doubts that the saloons and saloon organs would like to see 
society protected against all prohibition papers. Alcoholic drinks and 
female virtue are their stock in trade. — Way of Faith. 

MORE INSANE SOLDIERS. 

Omaha, Nebraska, March 15. — A carload of maniacs brought in 
from the West to-day caused commotion at the Union Station. The 
men were United States soldiers who had gone insane in the Philippines. 
All were absolutely mad and violent. All wore leg-irons and handcuffs. 
Some were in straight jackets and were bound to isolated parts of the 
car. There were eighteen in all. The soldier guards were stationed at 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 399 

the doors with clubbed rifles. As the train pulled into the station there 
was a confused sound as of a menagerie approaching. The imprisoned 
men were chattering, snarling, growling, moaning, roaring and whining 
like so many wild beasts. Each seemed to imagine himself some repre- 
sentative of the animal kingdom, and the result was terrifying and heart- 
rending. The maniacs are being taken to the St. Elizabeth Hospital at 
Washington. The blue-coated maniacs are produced by the drink traffic 
which the government perpetuates — the government for whose defense 
these soldiers gave their lives. — The Searchlight. 

A TRAMP'S SPEECH. 

A tramp asked for a drink in a saloon. The request was granted, and 
when in the act of drinking the proffered beverage, one of the young 
men present exclaimed: 

"Stop! make us a speech. It is poor liquor that doesn't loosen a 
man's tongue," says the "Prairie Depot Observer." The tramp hastily 
swallowed down the drink, and as the rich liquor coursed through his 
blood, he straightened himself and stood before them with a grace and 
dignity that all his rags and dirt could not obscure. 

"Gentlemen," he said, "I look to-night at you .and myself, and it 
seems to me that I look upon the picture of my blighted manhood. This 
bloated face was once as handsome as yours. This shambling figure 
once walked as proudly as yours, for I was a man of the world of men. 
I, too, once had a home and friends and position. I had a wife as 
beautiful as an artist's dream, but I dropped the priceless pearl of her 
honor and respect into a cup of wine, and like Cleopatra, saw it dissolve, 
then quaffed it down in the brimming draught. I had children, sweet 
and pure as the flowers of spring, and saw them fade away and die 
under the blighting curse of a drunken father. I had a home where love 
lit its flame upon the altar and ministered before it, but I put out the 
holy fire and darkness and desolation reigned in its stead. I had 
aspiration and ambition that soared as high as the morning star, but I 
broke and bruised those beautiful forms and strangled them that I might 
hear their cries no more. To-day I am a husband without a wife, a 
father without a child, a tramp without a home, and a man in whom 
every good impulse is dead. And all has been swallowed up in the 
maelstrom of drink." 



400 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

The tramp ceased speaking. The glass fell from his nervous fingers, 
shattered into a thousand fragments on the floor. The doors were 
pushed open and shut again, and when the group looked up, the tramp 
was gone. And this, gentle reader, is a true tale ; the tramp at one 
time having been a prominent attorney at Tiffin, Ohio. — Selected by 
Herald of Light. 

A GOOD INVESTMENT. 

John and James were twins, fourteen years old. Their father was 
very wealthy. On every birthday they expected a rich present from him. 
A week before they were fourteen, they were talking over what they 
most wanted. 

"I want a pony," said James. 

"And what do you want, John?" asked his father. 

"A boy." 

"A boy!" gasped his father. 

"Yes. It doesn't cost much more to keep a boy than it does a 
horse, does it?" 

"Well, no," replied his father, still very much surprised. 

"And I can get a boy for nothing, to begin with." 

"Yes," replied the father, hesitatingly, "I suppose so." 

"Why papa, I know so. There are lots of 'em running around with- 
out any home." 

"Oh, that's what you are up to, is it? Want to take a boy in and 
bring him up, do you?" 

"Yes, sir; it would be a great deal better than the Saint Bernard 
dog you were going to buy me, wouldn't it? You see, my boy could go 
about with me, play with me, and do all kinds of nice things for me — 
and I could do nice things for him, too, couldn't I? He could go to 
school, and I could help him with his examples and Latin." 

"Examples and Latin? God bless the boy, what is he aiming at?" 
and Judge Roding wiped the sweat from his bald head. 

"I know," laughed James. "He wants to adopt old drunken Peters 
son." 

"Yes, papa, 'cause he is running about the streets as dirty and 
ragged as he can be, and he's a splendid boy, father. He's just as smart 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 401 

as he can be, only he can't go to school half the time, 'cause he hasn't 
anything decent to wear." 

"How long do you want to keep him?" 

"Until he gets to be a man, father." 

"And turn out such a man as old Pete?" 

"No danger of that, father. He has signed the pledge not to drink 
intoxicants, nor swear, nor smoke, and he has helped me, father, for 
when I have wanted to do such things, he told me his father was once 
a rich man's son, and just as promising as James and I." 

"Do you mean to tell me that you ever feel like doing such things 
as drinking, swearing, smoking, and loafing?" asked his father, sternly. 

"Why, papa, you don't know half the temptations boys have nowa- 
days. Why, boys of our set swear and smoke and drink right along 
when nobody sees them. I am trying to surrender all — every vice, every 
bad habit. I don't see how I could enjoy a dog or a pony, when I know 
a nice boy suffering for some of the good things I enjoy." 

"You may have the boy, John, and may God bless the gift !"• — Pure 
Words. 

HAND OVER THE REINS. 

A lady once called Henry Drummond in to speak to her coachman, 
who had given way to drink, and he said he did not like to be called in 
like this, to be asked to argue with people of a sudden and try to cure 
their souls, but he felt it was case demanding Christian intervention, so 
he plucked up his courage and went out to talk to the man. And he 
put the problem to him, "Suppose you were on the box and your horses 
ran away downhill, and you lost all control of them ; what would you 
do?" "Oh," said the man, "I could do nothing." "Yes," said Drum- 
mond, "but suppose there was some one sitting by your side stronger 
than you, who could control them, what would you do?" "Oh," he 
said, "I would hand him the reins, sir." "Ah," said Drummond, "your 
life has run away with you, your appetites and passions and lusts are 
carrying you downhill, and you in your strength cannot control your 
life. But," he said, "believe me, there is One at your side stronger than 
you, who offers to take control of your life and make it what it should 
be. What will you do?" And the man saw the point and said, "Sir, I 
will give Him the reins." — Selected by Sent of God. 



402 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

HURRYING HELLWARD. 

A young man, who held a very important and paying position in the 
government employ, said he thought it stupid to be a total abstainer. He 
said : "I don't see why a man can not make himself a definite allowance. 
I am going to alter my system, and take just one glass a day and no 
more." 

"Well/' said his friend, "you are perfectly well without it." 

"Oh, yes ; I am very well in health." 

"Then why not let it alone?" 

"One glass a day won't hurt." 

"But you are a great deal better without it." 

"Well, I don't know; I shall just try one glass a day and keep to it." 

This was a young man of considerable self-control, and for one year 
he did keep to a glass of drink a day. Then he said : "I think it is 
foolish for a man to lay down any hard and fast lines for himself. A 
man ought to be able to take as much as is good for him, and as little 
as is good for him. I will restrict myself to what my system needs." 

Six months later, that same young man was picked up helplessly 
drunk in the streets. He was forgiven the first offence, as he had pre- 
viously borne a good character, but he fell again and again, and soon 
was dismissed from the government employ, and became an outcast 
from society. He then plunged downward in dissipation, and delirium 
tremens hurried him to hell. — C. W. Sherman in Way of Faith. 

ALCOHOLISM IN CHILDREN. 

"Alcoholism from nursing is a well-demonstrated clinical fact. THe 
alcohol passes into the mother's milk, and numbers of cases of illness 
and convulsions among young children have no other cause than the 
sometimes unconscious alcoholism of the nurse. 

"In a school where the children were from four to six years of age, 
the teacher, giving a lesson on coffee, asked this question: 

" 'What do you put in coffee ?' 

" 'Sugar,' answered several children. 

" 'Brandy,' said others. 

" 'Children,' said the teacher, 'brandy ought not to be put into coffee.' 

" T don't put mine into the coffee/ spoke up a little tot ; 'I do like 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 403 

mamma and papa; I drink it alone in my cup, after I have finished my 
coffee/ 

"Then the teacher asked, 'Are there other children here who drink 
their brandy in their cups?' 

"Five little hands were raised. And that was the usual proportion. 

"Alcohol, in the form of brandied fruit, bon-bons containing liquors, 
or rum-soaked cake, should never be given to children. 

"We may often observe in nursing children, nervous troubles akin 
to meningitis, and having no other cause than alcoholic intoxication. 
But they may also manifest acute alcoholism in the form of actual 
drunkenness. 

"Alcohol acts, then, in different ways with children. If the child is 
congenitally tainted by the poison, it may present a type of degeneracy 
that is in some degree due to the alcoholic poisoning of its ancestors. 
Alcohol can also lead to troubles that are more especially attributable to 
its hereditary influence, such as certain obsessions, night terrors; and 
particularly dipsomania. Finally, alcoholism in the parent gives rise 
to a disposition to the same troubles in the children.'' — Translation made 
for the Literary Digest. 

SAVED BY A KIND WORD. 

He had lost all respectability and was a common gutter drunkard. 
His family had' disowned him, and would not recognize him when they 
met. Occasionally he would get a job at the stables where Dr. Davis 
kept his horses. One morning the doctor laid his hand on his shoulders 
and said : "Jim, I wish you would give up the drink." 

There was something like a quiver on his lips as he answered : 

"If I thought you cared, I would, but there is a gulf between you 
and me." 

"Have I made any gulf, Jim ?" 

"No, you — haven't." 

"If you had been a millionare, could I have treated you more like a 
gentleman?" 

"No, you couldn't." 

"I do care, Jim." 

There were tears in the eyes of the man now. "I do care, Jim," 
with tender, little emphasis on the "Jim." 



404 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Dr. Davis, I'll never touch another drop of liquor as long as I 
live ; here's my hand on it." 

This was fifteen years ago, and Jim is to-day a respectable and 
respected man, and an earnest Christian — saved by a kind word. — Scot- 
tish Reformer. 

QUAKER'S TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 

Several persons, among them a Quaker, were crossing the Alleghany 
mountains in a stage. 

A lively discussion arose on the subject of temperance and the liquor 
business, and those engaged in it were handled without gloves. 

One of the company remained silent. After ensuring it as long as he 
could, he said : 

"Gentlemen, I want you to understand that I am a liquor dealer. 

I keep a public house of ; but I would have you to know that I have 

a license, and keep a decent house. 

"I don't keep loafers and loungers about my place, and when a man 
has enough, he can get no more at my bar. 

"I sell to decent people, and do a respectable business." 

He thought he had put a quietus on the subject, and that no answer 
could be given. Not so. The Quaker said: 

"Friend, that is the most damnable part of thy business. If thee 
would sell to drunkards and loafers, thee would help to kill off the race, 
and society would be rid of them. 

"But thee takes the young, the poor, the innocent and the unsus- 
pecting, making drunkards and loafers of them. 

"When their character and money are all gone, thee kicks them out, 
and turns them over to other shops to finish off; and thee ensnares 
others* and sends them on the same road to ruin." — Selected by Way of 
Faith. 

K CASTOR OIL TREAT. 

Mr. Perry was an old Southern gentleman, exceedingly polite. He 
would go out of his way at any time to avoid offending a neighbor or a 
friend. One day, a neighbor met him on the street with "Halloo, Mt. 
Perry ; I was just going in to get a drink. Come in, and take something." 

"Thank you, Mr.- , I don't care for anything," was the answer. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 405 

"But come in and' take something, just for sociability's sake." 

"Now, I want to be sociable ; but I can't drink with you." 

"All right, if you don't want to be sociable, I'll go without drinking," 
growled the friend, and he silently walked along in the direction in which 
Mr. Perry was traveling. 

Presently the pair drew near a drug store, when Mr. Perry broke 

out with "Mr. , I'm not feeling at all well to-day, and I think I'll go 

in this drug store and get some castor oil. Won't you join me ?" 

"What? a dose of castor oil-?" 

"Yes." 

"Naw; I hate the stuff," saying, while a chill went over the man as 
visible in its effects to Mr. Perry as if the ague had seized him on the 
street. 

"But I want you to take a glass of oil with me just to b»e sociable, 
you know." 

The friend still refused, when Mr. Perry said: 

"Your sociable whiskey is just as distasteful to me as my sociable 
castor oil." — Selected by Way of Faith. 

A YOUNG BUSINESS MAN'S REFORMATION. 

"He drinks. We do not want him." That was all, but it meant that 
a certain capable young man had lost a valuable business opportunity 
with a fine Ohio firm. His acknowledged capacities were vain, so soon 
as it was known that he was a wine-taker. The keen partners of the 
firm decided that he would be an unsafe, untrustworthy person. 

He drank quietly at home. Bought his liquor in cases. Was never 
seen to enter a saloon door, or to be intoxicated. But while his judgment 
was under the influence of the home potations, he made a very foolish 
business deal that caused him great financial loss, which it will take him 
a long time to retrieve. When he realized his silly mistake, he cleared 
the liquor from his cellar, and to his family declared he was forever 
through with alcohol. He is a man who will keep his word. — The Tem- 
perance Tribune. 

AN ILL-FATED SLEIGHRIDE. 

Where the snow had fallen so deeply that a bob-sled ride would 
be a youthful pleasure, four young men asked four young ladies to 



406 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

enjoy with them an evening sleighride. After a merry jingle about the 
country, the party came to a village, where an oyster supper was ordered. 
Excusing themselves, three of the young men went from the restaurant 
to an adjacent hotel, and drank whisky. They did not return promptly, 
and lingered over their evil cups. The hour became late, and the 
restaurant-keeper wished to close his establishment, and he and the 
sober young man made two trips to the hotel before they could win the 
drinkers to return with them. 

In the meantime, the young ladies, surprised, indignant and hurt, 
had started home over the snow afoot. It was two miles to the nearest 
home, four or more miles to the residence of the one who lived furthest 
away. All agreed, to stop over night at the nearest home, as no young 
lady had the hardihood or strength to walk four miles at winter mid- 
night. They were discovered a few rods on the way and called back 
by the repentant escorts, who at heart were kindly young men, but 
liquor-infatuated, it seemed. The young ladies were taken safely to their 
homes, and suffered no indignation on the way, as alarm had sobered the 
escorts. The young men humbly entreated pardon. The girls kept 
silence; but two of them alighted from the bob-sled when they reached 
home, utterly refusing to be aided, or to touch the hands of the young 
men who had been drinking. There was a lasting break-up in the friend- 
ship of that company. The drinking young men were ostracized, for no 
reputable girl who learned the story would trust herself to the miserable 
companionship of these incipient drunkards. — The Temperance Tribune. 

THE LAWYER'S LESSON. 

The father was a lawyer. He kept wine in the house. His young 
son, a bright lad, had been forbidden to taste the dangerous stuff, and it 
was kept out of sight, except when brought forth to treat the father's 
friends. Several called at the house one evening on legal business, wish- 
ing to hurry in a consultation. A bottle of wine was opened, and after 
the talk, there was the sound of clinking glasses and a gala draught. 
Then the gentlemen left the apartment, and the lad, who had been in an 
adjoining room, entered, spied the bottle high upon a shelf, clambered 
to the back of a chair, helped himself to a generous drink, and made an 
unsteady descent. When discovered, he was stupified — drunk, lying 
upon the floor under a table, whither he had crawled with an instinctive 
desire to conceal himself before sleeping his drunken sleep. At nine 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 407 

o'clock the mother returned home from a chat at a neighbor's. Directly 
her lawyer husband also came, after a trip to his office, where he had 
consulted certain authorities on the knotty case which confronted him. 
Together they searched for their little son, finding him at last on the 
carpet, under the shadows of a table-spread which hung low over the 
sides of the table. They drew him forth, saw the flushed face, heard the 
heavy breathing, smelled the alcoholic breath of the eight-year-old lad. 
With tears they vowed theirs should be a temperance hearth henceforth. 
And it is ! That lawyer is "dry," his lesson well learned ; his boy safe 
from further temptation. The sharp lash of conscience, and a heart of 
love, amde that home citadel a temperance fortress. — The Temperance 
Tribune, 

THE BARTENDER'S REFORMATION. 

He was a bartender, aged only- twenty-one. It was a temporary 
job, accepted to assist him in pursuing a certain course of study, for 
which he had not the means. The hotel needed (?) a young man of good 
address and of pleasant ways. So he was offered the bartender's chance 
and took it. One night there was a dance in the big ball-room of the 
hotel, and in the intervals of the dancing a number of young men, 
friends of the young bartender, would slip away from the scene of social 
festivity and reinforce their strength (as they supposed) at the bar. 
Finally the tide from upstairs became heavier, and the rude effects of 
alcohol began to be apparent. 

He who dispensed the drink, 
Began to think. 

In utter disgust at the harm that was being wrought, the rest of the 
night he added water to the liquor, keeping this mixing a secret for the 
time being. The next day he resigned his postion and told the reason, 
frankly declaring that he was a temperance convert. Then he eloquently 
appealed to his young friends who had patronized the bar. He described 
how maudlin and/ boisterous they became, how unfit to accompany young 
ladies to the safe shelter of their homes. He proved influential, and 
helped some to the straight, temperance path of decency. This tem- 
porary barkeeper will never again "touch, taste or handle" intoxicants. — 
The Temperance Tribune. 



408 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

WHY HE REFUSED. 

A man who lately came over from America told the writer that on 
board the steamer one of the passengers went up to another in the 
smoking-room and asked him to have a drink with him. The man thus 
invited continued reading a newspaper and made no reply. The other 
man again asked him to drink with him. No answer given. A third 
invitation was then given in these words : 

"Sir, I have asked you in as friendly a way as possible, to drink 
with me, and each time you went on with your reading, and had not the 
civility to answer me. Now I ask you for the third time if you will 
drink wine, whisky, or anything else with me." 

The man then put aside his paper and answered quietly: 

"Do you see that glass, sir? Well, if I were to take even a quarter 
of it, I could not leave off until I had drank all the liquor on board. This 
is why I would not drink with you." 

All present admired the man's self-control, and learned a striking 
lesson on the danger of putting temptation in a brother's way. — The 
Quiver. 

THE ELEPHANT AND PYTHON. 

Dr. Louis Albert Banks tell the following story, which has a most 
important lesson, especially for young people : 

"About six months ago a baby elephant was brought over from 
Burmah and made a summer tour, extending into the late autumn, with 
a traveling show. Then it was sent to the Brooklyn boarding house to 
spend the winter. The elephant took a bad cold, and the landlord dosed 
him with whisky and quinine from a demijohn. The elephant did not 
like the liquor at first, but soon acquired the habit, and the other night, 
feeling thirsty, he knocked the head off the demijohn, which had been left 
in his quarters, and sucked out all there was left. 

There was not enough to make him "dead" drunk, but just enough 
to make him feel big, and want to break something and have a great 
time. In his hilarity he overturned a glass-covered case in which a 
twenty-foot python was asleep. The big snake was angry when he 
waked up, and with a vicious sparkle in his little eyes, he went for that 
tipsy elephant and coiled himself around its body. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 409 

As the coils grew tense about the elephant, it trumpeted in agony, 
and struggled to shake the python off, but the snake had neither mercy 
nor fear. 

The boardinghouse keeper was awakened by the noise and rushed 
into the room, club in hand. He saw the peril of the elephant, and when 
the snake raised its head angrily at the intrusion, he hit it a savage 
blow. The coils loosened and the python fell to the floor. The elephant 
gasped and fell likewise. Its ribs had been crushed in, and in half an 
hour it was dead. The snake was put back into its box, but an hour 
later it was dead also. 

The empty demijohn in- the corner told the cause of the tragedy." 

BOY WANTED. 

A bright, wide-awake boy, one that is the sunshine of the home, his 
father's and mother's joy. 

He must be naturally quite active and genial. There is a demand 
for many boys of this kind — one hundred thousand of them are wanted 
every year. 

Who wants them? 

Satan. 

What does he want them for? 

How does he get them? 

Through the two hundred and forty thousand legalized saloons 
whose doors are open day and night. 

Who gives these saloons the right to run? 

The government. 

What is the government? 

The people. 

Who is responsible for all the evil that is done through the saloons ? 

Every man who votes wrong, and every man who doesn't vote, that 
can vote. 

Eight hundred thousand boys and girls have gone to drunkard's 
graves since McKinley was first elected president. 

What is the church doing to stop this evil ? 

She is sending her preachers to the conferences to pass resolutions 
against the liquor traffic, then voting against the resolutions which they 
pass. 



410 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

Who destroyed that happy home, blighted the fondest hopes, and 
blotted out the young life of that devoted wife and affectionate mother? 
The skeleton figure of that silent form points to the saloons as the place 
where the man became the fiend and the rumseller the guilty party. 
But the saloonkeeper is not wholly to blame — the people who vote for 
license 'have a share in it. 

The state of New York has a public drinking place over 410 miles 
long; the same state has 26,678 licensed bars. These saloons belong to 
the government and the people vote for them and seem to think it is ali 
right. 

"Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that putteth the 
bottle to him and maketh him drunken also." Hab. 2:15. — Winship 
Siders in Herald of Light. 

A STRONG ARGUMENT. 

The following card, made like a blotter, signed by a dozen gro- 
cery firms of Delaware, Ohio, has been scattered by the thousands, and 
has proved very effective in a campaign which, writes Dr. C. W. Barnes, 
"is moving splendidly" : 

"Anyone who drinks three glasses of whiskey a day for one year and 
pays ten cents a drink for it, can have in exchange at any of the firms 
whose names appear on this card 3 barrels flour, 20 bushels potatoes, 
200 pounds granulated sugar, 1 barrel crackers, 1 pound pepper, 2 pounds 
tea, 50 pounds salt, 20 pounds rice, 50 pounds butter, 10 pounds cheese, 
25 pounds coffee, 10 pounds candy, 3 dozen cans tomatoes, 10 dozen dill 
pickles, 10 dozen oranges, 10 dozen bananas, 2 dozen cans corn, 18 boxes 
matches, half a bushel beans, 100 cakes soap, and 12 packages rolled 
oats, for the same money, and gets $15.30 premium for making the change 
in his expenditures." — Western Christian Advocate. 

A LITTLE INDULGENCE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

A very marked and painful instance of the effects of a bad example 
occurred recently in the vicinity of Boston. A gentleman of high social 
position, a member of an Evangelical church, and the father of an 
interesting family — one whose life was closely watched, and errors as 
well as virtues were sure to be imitated — gave a large party. It was 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 411 

on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of his marriage. The 
company was very select, consisting in most part of clergymen of his 
own denomination, and the leading literary and business men of his 
acquaintance, and their families, nearly all being professed Christians. 

At the bountiful supper which was provided, conspicuous among 
the articles of luxury on the tables appeared a goodly supply of wine. 
It might charitably have been supposed that the host was merely 
weakly catering to the demands of the fashion, that his wine should 
have been untouched, and that he would receive gentle rebukes from 
more than one person present. But no ! Four doctors of divinity were 
among the first to raise their cups. The example was infectious. Some 
drank who never drank before, and all followed like a flock of sheep, 
seeming to have the feeling (which appears to be not uncommon) that 
it is possible for society to be above the observance of the lesser morals. 

One gentleman looked upon the scene with evident surprise for 
some time, then he seemed to hesitate, and finally drank more than all 
the rest. He went home and drank again that night, and again the 
next day, and the next. In a week he was a ditch drunkard, and, in a 
month he was discharged from the church of which he had been a 
consistent and valued member for seven years. He had been accus- 
tomed in early life to habits of dissipation, and that single evening's 
experience was sufficient to burst the old temptation upon him with 
overwhelming force. Christian duty, home, manliness, and all that he 
was or ever hoped to be, were swallowed up in that one low passion. 
The example of his own pastor had ruined him. 

What say our defenders among the churches of moderate drinking? 
Is no one responsible for such a case as this? Does not the Bible say 
something about him "who putteth the cup to his neighbor's lips?" In 
this instance, results are clearly traceable, but who will dare to say 
how often as terrible consequences follow when nothing is said, and 
little is publicly known of them? — Selected by Church Advocate. 

THE LAST WORDS OF A DRUNKARD. 

The following extracts were taken from one of the lectures of J. J. 
Talbot, who died from the effects of a drunken debauch at Elkhart, Ind. : 

"But now the struggle is over. I can survey the field and measure 
the losses. I had position high and holy. The demon tore from around 



412 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

me the robes of my sacred office and sent me out, churchless and God- 
less, a very hissing and by- word among men. Afterward I had a business 
large and lucrative, and my voice was heard in large courts, pleading 
for justice, mercy and right. But the dust gathered on my books, and 
no footfalls crossed the threshold of the drunkard's office. I had money 
ample for all necessities, but it took wings, and went to feed the coffers 
of the devils which possessed me. I had a home, formed with all that 
wealth and the most exquisite taste could buy. The devil crossed, the 
threshold, and the light faded from its chambers; the fire went out on 
the holiest of altars, and leading me from the portals, despair walked 
forth with me, and sorrow and anguish lingered within. I had children — 
beautiful to me, at least, as a dream of the morning — and they had so 
entwined themselves around their father's heart, that no matter where 
it might wander, ever it came back to them on the wings of a father's 
undying love. The destroyer took his hand in his and led them away. 
I had a wife, whose charms of mind and person were such that to see 
her was to remember, and to know her was to love her. Thirteen years 
we walked the ragged path of life together, rejoicing in its sunshine and 
sorrowing in its shade. The infernal monster would not even spare me 
this. 

"I had a mother who for long years had not left her chair, a victim 
of suffering and disease. Her choicest delight was reflecting that the 
lessons taught at her knee had taken root in the heart of her youngest 
born, and that he was useful to his fellows, and an honor to her who 
bore him. But the thunderbolt even reached there, and did its most 
cruel work. Other days may cure all but this. Ah, me ! never a reproach 
from these lips ; only a shadow of unspoken grief gathered on her dear 
old face; only a tender hand laid more lovingly upon my head; only a 
closer clinging to the cross ; only a piteous appeal to heaven if her cup 
were not at last full. And while her boy raged in his wild delirium 
two thousand miles away, the pitying angels pushed the golden gates 
ajar, and the mother of the drunkard entered into rest. 

"And thus I stand, a clergyman without a church, a barrister with- 
out a brief or business, a father without a child, a husband without a 
wife, a son without a parent, a man without hope — all swallowed up in a 
maelstrom of drink." — Way of Faith. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 413 

THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 

"What harm can there be in a moderate social glass of wine?" 

This is a question young men often ask. 

Remember that "at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like 
an adder." 

If the sting came at the beginning of the indulgence, few would be 
led astray. But the pleasure comes at the first, and the sting at the 
last, and herein lies the danger of drinking wine or strong drink. 

At first it sparkles and cheers. 

At last it poisons and maddens. 

At first it excites mirth and song. 

At last it produces sorrow and curses. 

At first it may appear to quicken the intellect to unwonted activity, 
and impart a captivating brilliancy to the conversation. 

At last it emasculates the mind of every element of strength, and 
degrades the conversation to the merest stammering or idiotic gibbering. 

At first it stimulates the body to unnatural vigor. 

At last it breaks down the strongest frame, and sends weakness into 
the limbs and trembling into the flesh. 

At first there may be health enough to resist the pernicious ten- 
dency of intoxication, so that with all the pleasures there are few of the 
pains of indulgence. 

At last drinkers become victims of manifold, loathsome, and dis- 
tressing diseases. 

At first it is a cup of exhilaration in the hands of thoughtless youth. 

At last it is a "cup of fearful trembling in the hand of an offended 
Deity." — Temperance Record. 

THE SALOONKEEPER. 

Does salvation really save? 

How often does one hear men and women make excuses, attempt 
extenuations of their actions in remaining unsaved, on the ground that 
their circumstances, their environments or their avocations forbid it! 
Especially is this true of business men, who more than any other class 
of men seem to think that the saving power of our Lord Jesus Christ 
is limitable to certain conditions only. 



414 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"I would be a Christian," says one, "but I never could be content to 
be anything less than a thorough out-and-outer, and in my business 
that's impossible." 

And the curious part of it is that ever so many of those that offer 
such excuses are perfectly honest — as sincere in their aspirations, per- 
haps, as they are dense in their stupidity. To get saved first, to really 
give God his opportunity, and then see what he will make of it in suiting 
their strength to their needs, is what seems never to enter their mind. 

And yet there is hardly a business man but knows some instance in 
which God has saved a man and then marvelously adjusted all the man's 
business conditions to his salvation — not his salvation to his business 
conditions. 

Look at that Western saloonkeeper! A better fellow, according to 
the dictum of all the "t>oys" in his town, couldn't be found alive ; honest, 
straightforward, good-natured and generous ! Why, there wasn't a 
kindlier fellow in the world when it came to "setting 'em up" for the 
crowd, or doing the fair thing by a man when he was "broke." 

Yet, it need hardly be said, he wasn't a Christian. But in course of 
time his wife did become a Christian, and from that time a lively duel 
went on between her and the devil as to which should have her husband — 
sin or salvation. 

Finally, one happy night, the persistent wife had her reward. By 
a bit of wife sharp practice she extorted a promise from her husband 
to go to the Army meeting with her, and there the Spirit of the living 
God swept in such splendid scorn through the soul of the saloon man, 
that nothing was left him but to flee to the Cross, and there cling for 
safety and peace. 

Next morning the wife had a worrisome thought. 

"But, my dear," said she, "how about the saloon?" 

"I've been thinking of that," said he. 

"What'll you do— sell it?" 

He shook his head decisively. 

"No, I shan't sell." 

"But," cried the wife in alarm, "you can't continue to run it!" 

"No, of course not." 

"But what'll you do?" 

The husband got up and buttoned his coat. 

"Suppose you come along," said he, "and see," 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 415 

And two hours later the news spread like wildfire that a saloon man 
had gone daft and was smashing his bottles and emptying his casks in 
the gutter of the street. 

That's what salvation moved one man to do in the way of adjusting 
his business to his salvation, and somehow, though everyone called it 
a wicked waste of money, and prophesied poverty and ruin to the man 
who was guilty of it, when our converted saloonist opened a modest little 
fruit and vegetable stall, and made a bid for popular custom in that 
which could bring woe to no hearts and ruin to no lives, the God he 
served took an interest in the new business, prospered it so unmistak- 
ably that our erstwhile saloon brother has never had any doubt that it 
is possible very successfully to adapt one's business to one's salvation. — ■ 
War Cry. 

THE FIRST GLASS. 

In one of our colleges, several years ago, was a young man pos- 
sessed of fine mind, excellent attainments and pleasing manners — the 
life of the social circle and the favorite of all. He was not only a 
pleasant, but a safe companion, for he was free from the vices with 
which some of the young men who frequent college halls are familiar. 
The inebriating cup had never passed his lips. But there came a time 
when the snare of the tempter was thrown around him, and he had 
not the power to break away. 

At an evening party wine formed a part of the entertainment, and 
the sparkling cup was offered him by a gay young lady. Surely he 
could not refuse to drink one glass with her? There could be no 
harm in that. 

Thus the young lady pleaded, and thus the young man reasoned. 
He had never tasted wine ; but when once the cup had passed his lips, a 
thirst was created which clamored for indulgence. That first glass, 
pressed to his lips by a young and thoughtless lady, and accepted through 
fear of appearing singular, was the beginning of a downward course. His 
studious habits were abandoned. He sought the company of revelers; 
rapidly, madly, he rushed to ruin, and in a few short months was laid 
in a drunkard's grave. 

So young, so gifted! Another victim laid on the altar of intern- 



416 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

perance. By his fall many fond hopes were blighted and hearts almost 
crushed. 

His companions in college laid to heart the lessons taught by his 
fearful fall. Standing around' his grave, they made a solemn promise 
never to taste the deadly poison, never to deal in it, never to offer it 
to others, or in any way to encourage its use. 

Some of this number still live, zealous advocates of the cause of 
temperance. 

And the young lady through whose enticing words the first glass 
passed his lips, can she meet at the judgment the soul of her victim? 
She knew not what she did, or hand and tongue would have palsied 
as she held before him the sparkling cup but it is never safe to trifle 
with a deadly poison. 

Young lady, as you value the souls of those whom you may in- 
fluence, shun the social glass. Let no one be influenced by your exam- 
ple to take the first step in the downward way. — Way of Faith. 

"MY GUESTS TOUCH NO WINE." 

"The most effectual temperance lecture I ever heard in my life was 
preached to me on New Year's Day," said a young man recently, in the 
hearing of a friend. 

"Why, Horace, where were you? And who delivered it?" was asked. 

"I was visiting in Philadelphia, and with my cousin, John Levins, 
set out to pay a number of New Year's calls. It is not the custom now, 
as formerly, to set out wine before guests, but it is still done some- 
times. Our second call was at the princely home of Franklin Graves, of 
whom you have heard. His lovely daughter greeted us, smiling and 
beautiful, a very queen among women. There was also an elegant 
assortment of choice wines which the father pressed upon the guests. 
'Did you come to see papa or me?' was always the question asked of 
each guest, and, so far as I know, there was but one answer, 'We came 
to see you.' 'My guests touch no wine,' she said. 'I have other refresh- 
ments provided for them.' The wine glasses stood untouched, the fair 
young girl flitted to and fro among her guests, ministering herself to 
their needs. The father gracefully acquiesced and finally had the wine 
glasses removed. ' 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 417 

" 'Did you ever witness anything so effectual as that?' said Cousin 
John, as we started up the street together. 

" 'Never/ I answered. 'No temperance lecture ever touched me like 
that quiet speech, 'My guests touch no wine/ God helping me, it is the 
last time the glass shall ever touch my lips/ 

"I have since learned that more than one young man began refor- 
mation on New Year's Day as the result of that very call." 

"My guests touch no wine." They were simple words, quietly 
spoken, but what did they not imply? 

This Christian girl performed a service as faithfully as though the 
kingdom of God depended upon her fidelity. — Home Herald. 

SHERIDAN AND HIS SON. 

General Sheridan, on being asked by a friend what he should choose 
for his little son from all the temptations which beset him, the one most 
to be feared, what would it be, leaned his head and said soberly: 

"It would be the curse of strong drink. Boys are not saints. We 
are all self-willed, strong-willed, may be full of courage and thrift and 
push and kindness and charity, but woe to the man or boy who becomes 
a slave to liquor. O, I had rather see my little son die to-day than to 
see him carried in to his mother drunk ! One of my brave soldier boys 
on the field said to me just before a battle, when he gave me his message 
to his mother, if he should be killed, 'Tell her I have kept my promise to 
her. Not one drink have I ever tasted/ The boy was killed. I carried 
the message with my own lips to the mother. She said: 'General, that 
is more glory for my boy than if he had taken a city V " — Temperance 
Cause. 

THE OPPRESSOR. 

It has been my habit for several years to clip from the newspapers 
these ghastly records, and when I have accumulated a large number, take 
a spare hour or two and paste them on sheets one below another, and 
now and then read over the long list. 

What a record of hell! What Christian heart could be unmoved? 
What an incentive to earnest endeavor! What an opportunity for 
Christ and humanity! 



418 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Stabbing, cutting, wounding, brutal assaults, homicide, parricides, 
infanticide, suicide, and murder in every form, all the outcome of the 
liquor traffic. 

No wonder the grog-seller said, concerning his business, when every- 
body was excited over a suicide which had occurred through drink, 
"Gentlemen, it's a damnable business, but there is money in it." 

I considered the wrongs which innocent sufferers have to endure; 
the blasphemy and insult to God and his Son growing out of it; the 
disgrace of it to our civilization and our Christianity; the contradiction 
of every principle of political economy and common sense ; the stupidity 
of the nations that permit its continuance. When I think of it, I often 
ask, "Are we even yet more than half civilized?" 

What will our grandchildren think of us when they come to peruse 
the records of our police courts? Oh, that is nothing. What will God 
think of us when we face the judgment? What will we think of our- 
selves? We are not doing our best. What will those poor souls who 
have gone down to eternal despair through the drink traffic think of us, 
when, had we been more in earnest, we might have led their captivity 
captive. We might long ago have destroyed the destroyer. We think 
the Hindoo wicked and stupid because he built a juggernaut and rolled 
it through the streets now and then, permitting those frenzied ones who 
would to throw themselves under its ponderous wheels. Where their 
car has crushed one, ours has crushed one thousand — yea, ten thousand. 

Old systems of political despotism, tyranny, serfdom and slavery 
are all thrown into the shade when compared with the oppression which 
this legalized system entails upon our race. Those affected the body, 
this the immortal soul as well. 

"Behold the tears of such as are oppressed." 

A young girl came to me and said, "Mr. Lucas, three years ago my 
mother died. She made me promise that I would be a mother to the 
little ones. My father drinks up all he earns and has now begun to 
drink also what my two little brothers earn, till I have not one dollar left 
to fulfill my pledge to my dying mother." I did everything in my power 
to try and reform that man, but the grog-shop has more power than 
our moral suasion when it gets its grip upon these men. Two years 
later all those little ones that dying mother left behind here were in jail 
for stealing. 

A young wife left her bed on a cold night to open the outer door for 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 41§ 

her inebriate husband. While she was shutting it, he staggered through 
the inner door, and, shutting it, the spring locked her out in the bitter 
cold. How she came down to her death was wrung from her by her 
father a little before her loving and faithful spirit took its flight. 

A woman at Masterton, New Zealand, went to a grog-seller and 
besought him with tears not to sell her husband any more liquor, as both 
she and her children were becoming very much afraid of him when he 
was under its influence. That grog-seller took her by the shoulders and 
shoved her violently into the street. In less than a fortnight the hus- 
band, supplied with liquor by that same grog-seller, killed the poor 
woman and their four children with an axe. Behold the sufferings and 
the tears of such as are oppressed. 

One said in our meeting, "I have often gone supperless to bed 
because my father was a drunkard. Literally starving, I one day took 
a bun from a counter in a store. My father, being told of it, very 
nearly beat me to death." 

"Have you no shoes, my boy?" said a friend of mine to a barefooted 
little fellow on a cold winter's day. The poor child began to cry, saying, 
"Sir, a lady gave me a pair of shoes, but mother sold them for beer." — ■ 
Rev. D. V. Lucas, D. D., in Wav of Faith. 

THE LITTLE SHOES. 

At a temperance meeting in England, the chairman, addressing a 
young man, yet a reformed drunkard, said : 

"Come, William Turner, you have known as much about the drink 
evil as anyone here or anywhere; come, tell us, for I never heard how 
it was that you changed right about face from the mouth of hell to the 
gate of hope. Come, man, out with it ; maybe it'll do good." 

The young man thus urged rose and looked for a moment very con- 
fused. All he could say was : 

"The little shoes— they did it." 

With a thick voice, as if his heart were in his throat, he kept repeat- 
ing this. There was a stare of perplexity on every face, and at length 
some thoughtless people began to titter. The man, in all his embarrass- 
ment, heard this sound, and rallied at once. The light came into his 
eyes with a flash; he drew himself up and looked at the audience; the 
choking went from his throat. 



420 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE ^_^ 

"Yes, friends," he said, in a voice that cut its way clear as a deep- 
toned bell, "whatever you may think of it, I've told you the truth — the 
little shoes did it. I was a brute and a fool; strong drink had made 
me both and starved and stripped me in the bargain. I suffered; I 
deserved to suffer. But I didn't suffer alone; no man does who has a 
wife and child, for the woman gets the worst share. But I'm no speaker 
to enlarge on that; I'll stick to the little shoes. I saw one night, when 
I was all but done for, the publican's child holding out her feet for her 
father to see her fine new shoes. It was a simple thing, but, friends, no 
fist ever struck me such a blow as those little shoes. They kicked 
reason into me. 'What business have I to clothe others and let my own 
go bare?' said I. And there, outside, was my wife and child, in a bitter 
night. I took hold of my little one with a grip, and I saw her chilled 
feet. Men, fathers, if the shoes smote me, what did the feet do? I put 
them, cold as ice, to my breast; they pierced me through and through. 
Yes, the little feet walked right into my heart and turned out my selfish- 
ness. I had a trifle of money left. I bought a loaf of bread and a pair of 
little shoes. I never tasted anything but a bit of bread all the Sabbath 
day, and I went to work like mad on Monday, and from that day I have 
spent no more money in the public house. That is all I've got to say. 
It was the little shoes that did it." — National Temperance Advocate. 

A PROMISE TO A MOTHER. 

While drinking whiskey was the fashion all about him, Abraham 
Lincoln never forgot his dead mother's request to close his lips against 
intoxicants. Once, when he was a member of Congress, a friend criticised 
him for his seeming rudeness in declining to test the rare wines pro- 
vided by their host, using as a reason for the reproof, "There is certainly 
no danger of a man of your years and habits becoming addicted to 
its use." 

"I meant no disrespect, John," answered Mr. Lincoln, "but I prom- 
ised my precious mother only a few days before she died, that I would 
never use anything intoxicating as a beverage, and I consider that 
promise as binding to-day as it was the day I gave it." 

"There is a great difference between a child surrounded by a rough 
class of drinkers and a man in a home of refinement," insisted the friend. 

"But a promise is a promise forever, John, and when made to a 
mother it is doubly binding," replied Mr. Lincoln. — Way of Faith. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 421 

"WE PLAYED CARDS AND DRANK WINE." 

Sauntering leisurely along the street, a well-dressed young lady 
passed me. She gave a peculiar call. It was answered by a girl about 
her own size and age. The two girls seated themselves on the edge of 
a porch and at once began an animated chit-chat, and so loud as to be 
distinctly heard rods off. This is a part of what I was almost compelled 
to hear: 

"Yes, we played cards with the gentleman, and drank a good deal 
of wine, and perhaps did and said things that we ought not to, but the 
folks needn't make such a fuss about it." 

"S'h!" warned her companion. "If my mother were to hear what 
you say, it would be the last of my going out of this house after dark." 

So long as men with rotten hearts are on the lookout for victims, 
and such careless ones present themselves as these girls apparently were 
recruits will continue to swell the army of the lost. 

"We played cards and drank wine." When did they begin this 
habit of wine-drinking, I wonder? Once when my field of labor in 
this gospel temperance work was in one of the interior towns of the 
Middle States, I met on the principal avenue a young woman, a former 
pupil in the Sunday School in a distant village. A moment's conversation 
showed me how the cruel vulture had done its ghoulish work. The spirit 
of the Samaritan moved me. I prayed that I might be able to turn her 
wayward feet. The purity of blessed childhood's days and scenes, 
associations sweet and sacred, hallowed memories, early playmates — 
all, all were presented in the brilliant color of hope and trust. A mist 
filled her eyes. 

"Come, I'll take you home. In less than a day we'll be there. How 
glad your parents will be to see you ! Surely you do not forget the love 
of father and mother, and you do want to see them again, don't you, 
Mary?" 

Straightening herself up to her full height, her face white, her form 
rigid and strained, in a voice whose tone conveyed hate, mingled with 
despair, she answered: 

"Yes, I do remember them. They taught me to drink wine at the 
family board. I was told to drink it like a lady. Easily and quickly 
enough I learned to like it. I tried to drink it 'like a lady/ Under its 
influence, the bottle was drained; my brain reeled; the world was torn 



422 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

from under my feet ; the sky became all brass. To-day I am eating the 
ashes of the apples of the Dead Sea. There is nothing left worth living 
for. I can't fight the odds much longer. Every hand pushes me nearer 
the bottom ; then comes the end. Some day I must stand at the bar of 
God, and I tell you I shall be a true witness against those who taught 
me to 'drink wine like a lady.' " — Way of Faith. 

A DRUNKARD'S WILL. 

A dying drunkard in Oswego, N. Y., left the following as his "last 
will and testament:" 

"I leave to society a ruined character, a wretched example and a 
memory that will soon rot. I leave to my parents as much sorrow as 
they can, in their feeble state, bear. I leave to my brothers and sisters 
as much shame and mortification as I can bring on them. I leave to my 
wife a broken heart and a life of shame. I leave to each of my children 
poverty, ignorance, a low character and a remembrance that their father 
filled a drunkard's grave." 

Ye patrons of the saloon, is this the "will and testament" you are 
writing out each day for your wife and children? Shame upon you to 
leave them such a disgraceful inheritance! Where is your manhood? 
Where is your love for your family? Where is your honor and nobility? 
Are you selling it to the saloonkeeper? 

When the writer of this sat in the office recently, looking over the 
copy for the "Frozen Truth," an honest-looking workman came in, and 
in the course of conversation with the clerk in the office, said: "I used 
to patronize the saloons, I drank regularly, but I soon learned that I 
could not support the saloons and support my family, too; I could not 
drink and provide for the wants of my family as I should, and so I quit 
drinking, and I left off patronizing the saloons." — Selected by Way of 
Faith. 

THEY HAD BEEN THERE. 

A saloonist innocently reveals one of the principal difficulties in the 
way of enforcing the law against liquor dealers, in a trial before a 
justice court, according to the Templar. On being sworn, one of the 
attorneys in the case asked, "Mr, — — , where is your place of business?" 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 423 

"What for you ask me such dings? You drinks at my place more as 
a hundred times !" 

"That has nothing to do with the case, Mr. . State to the jury 

where your place of business is." 

"De shury! de shury! Oh, my shiminy! Every shentlemen on dis 
shury has a string of marks on my cellar door shust like a rail fence." 

The court then interceded in behalf of the counsel, and in a calm, 
dignified manner, requested the witness to state the place of his business. 

"Oh, excuse me, your honor, you drink mit my place so many times. 
I dinks you know very well where I keep mine blace." — Watchword. 

MR. GLADSTONE'S TEMPERANCE WORK. 

Many years ago two young men, residents of Hawarden, became 
notorious for their drinking habits, and it occurred to the late distin- 
guished statesman that he would make an attempt to reclaim the erring 
youths. With this in view, Mr. Gladstone arranged to see them at the 
Castle, where, alone in his library — the historic "Temple of Peace" — he 
impressively appealed for their reformation, and then knelt and fer- 
vently asked God to sustain and strengthen theni in the resolve hence- 
forth to abstain from the use of that which had hitherto occasioned so 
much mischief. 

The sequel is best told in the language of one of the men. 

"Never," he says, "can I forget the scene, and as long as I have 
memory, the incidents of the meeting will be indelibly impressed on 
my mind. The Grand Old Man was profoundly moved by the intensity 
of his solicitation. My companion is now a prominent Baptist minister 
in Wales, and neither of us from that day to this have touched a drop 
of intoxicating drink, nor are we ever likely to violate the undertaking 
so impressively ratified in Mr. Gladstone's library." 

Mr. Gladstone, at Liverpool, 1892 : "Let us all carry with us, deeply 
stamped upon our hearts, a sense of shame for the great plague of 
drunkenness which goes through the land, sapping and undermining 
character, breaking up the happiness of families, oftentimes choosing for 
its victims not the worst, but the most susceptible. Surely, there is 
hardly one among us who has not seen the pestilent results to which 
the habit leads. We should carry with us a deep and adequate sense 



424 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

of the mischief, and an earnest intention to do what in us lies to 
remove it." 

"What would the great nations of the earth do," asked a liquor 
paper, "were it not for the revenue they derive from the liqour traffic?" 

"Give me a sober nation," said Gladstone, "and I will take care of 
the revenue." And surely America will not say "can't" when England 
says "can." — Selected by Way of Faith. 

THE SALOON AND CHILDREN. 

In a recent address, S. I. Roberts, superintendent of cotton works 
at Danville, Virginia, said: "The effect of the saloon upon children of 
the laborer, according to my observation (and it is not very limited), is 
indescribably sad. A few years ago, when there were saloons in Dan- 
ville, I went to the mill one Monday morning quite early, and as the 
operators came in to their respective departments, I noticed a little girl 
and boy, who seemed only to have been at work a few days. 

"The little girl looked thin and pale, and shortly after the machinery 
started, she came over to where I was, and said, 'Mr. Roberts, I am so 
weak and feel so badly, I cannot work to-day, brother and I have not 
had a mouthful of breakfast, and mother is at home, hungry and sad.' 

"I said, 'What does this mean? Didn't you draw your wages Satur- 
day evening?' 'Yes, sir,' said she, 'but (looking down on the floor, and 
with tears in her eyes), father has got to drinking and spent all the 
money Saturday night and did not buy anything for us to eat.' I went 
and ordered breakfast for them both, then I called them, and said, 'You 
go home and tell your father and mother both to come down to the mill 
and see me/ 

"They came, and I promptly said to the father, that we would not 
allow his children to work for us longer, except on one condition. Says 
he, 'What is that?' I answered that the wages they made must be 
drawn by the mother and used by her to obtain food and clothing for 
the children, and that he must not touch the money or have anything 
to do with the purchases. After some hesitation, and seeing that 
argument was useless, he agreed. 

"A few days later I was driving along the street, and a bar-keeper 
came out of a saloon and hailed me to stop. He came up to my buggy 
and said, 'Look here, Mr. Roberts, you are interfering with my business/ 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 425 

'What/ said I, 'I interfering with your business? Your business is 
to take food from the mouths of women and children, and clothes off 
their backs. My business is to put them on/ He turned on his heels 
and walked away." — Selected by Church Advocate. 

SUNSHINE OR SHADOW. 

"Choose you this day whom ye will serve/' There is danger in 
halting and in wavering. 

A stonecutter had in his employ two intemperate men. One Mon- 
day, as they entered the yard, he said to them, "Why do you waste your- 
selves so? The moment you get your Saturday wages you go and lay 
out everything in rum. And Sundays you lie in the gutter until the 
flies are so thick on your faces that no one would know you from a 
brute that was dead and ought to be buried out of sight." 

Ten years passed. On a recent morning this employer, on his way 
to his office in New York city, saw at a corner of Third Avenue one of 
those men taking a bone out of a garbage barrel and tearing it apart 
with his fingers that he might gnaw out the gristle in the joint — a poor, 
blear-eyed ruin and sot. 

Hardly had his former employer reached his desk, when a pleasant- 
looking man entered and said, "Do you remember me?" He had no 
difficulty in the recognition. It was the other of the two employees of 
years before. He went on : "I took to heart what you said to me, and 
dropped liquor at once and forever. I am now in easy circumstances 
and have two thousand on deposit at the Metropolitan Bank." There, 
within an hour of observation, were the fruits of ten years' history — 
Christian Standard. 

BOTTLES MAKE RAGS. 

"Bottles and rags! Bottles and rags!" called the rag-man, as he 
plied his calling. 

"Why do you always put these words together?" asked the passer-by. 

"Because, madam," said the rag-man, courteously touching his hat to 
the lady, "wherever you find bottles you find rags." 

Shrewd philosophy ! It is a pity that our statesmen cannot see the 
thing as clearly, and that, for the good of prosperity, to say nothing of 



426 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

the moral happiness of the people, they do not stop the accursed liquor 
traffic, instead of putting in the way of Christian workers all sorts of 
handicaps. 

Remember the shrewd words of the rag-man, who sees things as 
they are : "Wherever you find bottles you find rags." And if you wish 
to save people from coming to rags, you will banish the bottle. Let us 
all say we shall not give over the fight until we succeed. — Angelus. 

A WORD ABOUT A DROP. 

"Come in, Patrick, and take a drop of something," said one Chicago 
Irishman to another. 

"No, Mike, I am afraid of drops ever since Tim Flaherty died." 

"Well, what about him?" 

"He was one of the likeliest fellows in these parts. But he began the 
drop business in Barney Shannon's saloon. It was a drop of something 
out of a bottle at first. But in a little while Tim took a few drops 
too much, and then he dropped into the gutter. He lost his place, he lost 
his coat and hat, he lost his money; he lost everything but his thirst 
for strong drink. Poor Tim ! And the worst was to come. He got 
crazy with drink one day and killed a man. And the last time I saw him 
he was taking his last drop with a slipping noose around his neck. 

"I have quit the dropping business, Mike. I have seen so many 
good fellows when whiskey had the drop on them. They took just a 
drop from a bottle, and they dropped into the gutter, and then dropped 
into the grave. No rumseller can get a drop on me any more, and if 
you don't drop him, Mike, he will drop you." — Templar. 

FLAVORED WITH BRANDY. 

In the early married life of a certain lady in the state of New York, 
a young friend whom she had known and loved since childhood — an 
only son — came from his home in a neighboring town to spend the day 
with her. He had been a victim of alcohol of the "spree" variety, but 
to the great joy of his friends, had now for eight months triumphed over 
his demon master. 

All went well until dinner, when for dessert, the mistress of the 
boarding-house sent up the usual pie and a pudding flavored with 
brandy. Mrs. B. quietly moved the latter back from both their 



^_ STORIES OF HELLAS COMMERCE 427 

plates, saying to her friend, "You and I will take pie/' but the familiar 
odor had made its appeal. He alternately drew up and pushed back 
the plate, and at last nervously seized it and eagerly devoured the 
poisoned food. 

Full of apprehension she returned with him to her own apart- 
ments, resorting to every possible expedient to divert and entertain him 
until the time for the train, shuddering at the thought of sending him 
home once more bound for Satan, but in vain. Looking at his watch 
repeatedly, he finally said, "I must go to the station." "I will go with 
you," was her reply, and they started out together and passed the 
first hell-gate safely, but at the second he darted from her side and 
disappeared. In dismay, she flew to her husband's office, telling him 
he must come and find the fugitive. The eager search was vain; but 
on the third day, on a pile of lumber, drenched by the pouring rain, 
robbed of watch and diamond studs, he was found and taken back to his 
home ! Three months after, as a result of his exposure, he was borne 

to his grave. Mrs. B. was sent for in his last hours. With failing 

breath, he tried to comfort his agonized mother, and to his friend he 
said, "Don't be troubled that I took the brandy sauce with you. I am 
too Weak to resist temptation ; it is better for me to die now," and so 
he passed to where the wicked cease from troubling. What a lesson 
for us ! — Union Signal. 

BE NOT DECEIVED. 

"Oh, I take it to aid digestion. I suffer so from dyspepsia," was 
the reply of an army officer when cautioned against the use of alcoholic 
drink. What folly! Why, men put dead flesh into alcohol to prevent 
it from corruption. To take drink to allay or reduce an inflammation 
is like putting oil on fire. Injuries and gunshot wounds fare far worse 
in a drinking man than in a sober one. "But for the alcohol in him," 
says the doctor, "or the bad blood caused by beer, there might be hope." 

A man's motive in taking the drink may be good, but liquors never 
stop to ask what you want of them; they go in and do their work of 
death. 

But it is said that liquor is needful and useful in fatigue duty. 
Is it? Why do the soldiers need it? Is it to give them warmth? This 
it never does. Alcohol produces a sudden excitement and glow, but it 



428 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

abstracts heat, and the man is colder after it than he was before it. Does 
he need it for nourishment when exhausted? This it does not give. 
The idea that alcohol is consumed in the system, and is properly food, 
is exploded. It is never digested, more than a stroke of lightning. It 
remains in the system, disturbing every part until it is expelled through 
the lungs and liver. 

It goes to the brain and produces brain fever and madness, and the 
man who drinks it on fatigue duty is but the more fatigued and the 
more disqualified for his arduous duties. — The National Advocate. 

THE COMMANDER'S PLACARDS. 

The military commander of Paris has ordered that placards illus- 
trating the evil effects of alcohol shall be placed on all the barracks in 
that city. These cards, which are hung in conspicuous places, show on 
one side the interior organs of a drunkard, and on the other side those 
of a temperate man. Beneath is a brief explanation of the pathological 
and moral effects of the abuse of alcohol. — Way of Faith. 

WHAT'S YOUR BOY WORTH. 

Last fall, with Mr. A. B. Campbell, of Topeka, I attended a tem- 
perance meeting held in a schoolhouse in Shawnee county, Kansas. 
After two speeches had been made a collection was taken up to raise 
money to prosecute liquor sellers in that county. 

A tall Kansan arose and said: "Put me down for $20; I have six 
boys, and, if necessary, will make my subscription more. To save them 
a $100 bill would be a small amount." 

Yet he was a hard working farmer ; but he loved his boys, and, as a 
consequence, hated the liquor traffic. 

In my late trip I asked a man, formerly a New York merchant, how 
it was that he had taken such an interest in the prohibition movement. 
He replied: "To my astonishment I found out that my eldest boy had 
taken a drink of beer." 

That was enough. He loved him as "the apple of his eye." And 
now every energy of that business man is brought into active service 
to protect his son from the ravages of the liquor trade. 

In a town meeting in Jersey, after a public meeting, a gentleman 
asked what he should do to save his two dissolute, drunken boys. A 



STORIES OP HELL'S COMMERCE 429 

man of means, and living in a handsome country residence, he could not 
see why they preferred the saloon to their home of comfort. The liquor 
trade, knowing that he would foot all bills, was only too willing to give 
the boys all the poison they asked for. He said he loved them; but he 
never voted for home protection, as against the saloon, on election day. 
His boys, practically, were not worth casting a ballot for. 

I came across a mother in Ohio who loved her boy so that she would 
not give her husband any rest until he promised to vote for the second 
amendment. Some people thought she was only a humble, ignorant 
woman, but she was smart enough to know the value of her boy. 

You mothers who read this article, answer me this question : What's 
your boy worth ? Make the price high, for he is "bone of your bone and 
flesh of your flesh." Ask father if he is worth a ballot next election. 
Put the question to him with tear-drops trickling down your cheeks, 
backed up with a prayer of faith. If you can do it with all sincerity, 
the true value of his boy will appear and all other questions sink into 
insignificance. 

What is your boy worth ? 

1. He is worth asking to sign the total abstinence pledge. 

2. He is of sufficient value to be sent to a school to be educated — 
to be instructed as to the effects of alcohol upon the human system. 

3. He is of sufficient importance for you to know where he spends 
his evenings and who are his associates. 

4. He is of more value than many household pets, and is entitled to 
more of your time and attention. 

5. To say nothing of the value of your boy's good character, he has 
cost you for food, raiment and education, more than what the average 
saloonkeeper pays for his license. 

6. "As the twig is bent the tree is inclined." It will be of great 
importance to you whether your boy is a valuable citizen or a curse to 
you and the neighborhood in which you reside. If he turns out good, 
he will be worth his weight in gold; if otherwise, better he had never 
been born. 

7. Being immortal, he is worth a life's work to prepare him for a 
happy hereafter. 

No license was ever made high enough to cover the lowest esti- 



430 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

mate that you can put on your boy if there's a spark of Christianity or 
humanity in your heart. 

Nebraska virtually says its city boys are worth $1,000; altogether 
too low. New York city puts the price of her boys at $75; less than 
the price of a city railway horse — an insult to every mother. 

What's your boy worth ? 

Tell me the value of his soul, and I'll name the price of the privilege 
to sell intoxicants. 

What's your answer? — Witness. 

KEEP THE PLEDGE. 

A little incident related to me by an eye witness is so suggestive 
within itself that I have decided to give it to those who may chance to 
see these columns. 

In one of our North Carolina towns, not a hundred miles distant, 
one of the hotelists habitually dispenses wine at his tables. 

Not long since three young men, two of them seemingly traveling 
companions, the third a stranger to them both, chanced to be seated at 
one end of the table, while two elderly gentlemen occupied the other 
end. 

After the viands had been served the waiter handed the wine. The 
two elderly gentlemen filled their glasses, and, while they sat drinking 
and talking, the wine was passed on to the three young men. 

The stranger refused it ; one of the other two said : "No, I'm under 
a pledge;" and the third also refused it. The waiter then deposited the 
decanter on the table just in front of the pledged young man. 

For a few moments he sat quietly eating, but as the odor from the 
older men's glasses reached his olfactories and it sat sparkling before 
him in ruby splendor, his eyes began to glance from plate to bottle; he 
grew restless and inattentive to his companion's conversation, and at 
last he seemed to see nothing but the bottle. Finally, with eyes dilated 

and frame trembling, he threw down knife and fork, exclaiming : "D 

the pledge," and made a grasp for the bottle. 

Just then the stranger, who had been quietly watching and hesi- 
tating to speak, said: "Don't do that; keep your pledge," and gently 
took the bottle and placed it out of reach. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 431 

The tempted one, with a look of astonishment, turned and gazed the 
stranger in the face, but said nothing. 

They all left the hotel and resumed their journey. Some little while 
after the train moved off the young man who had been so sorely tempted 
sought his unknown friend and said : 

"You are a stranger to me, but I thank you ; you saved me this time 
and I shall hereafter try to be a stronger man." 

What will the harvest be? — Advocate. 

"WHAT IT FEEDS ON." 

The rum curse still rests like a deadly curse upon our enslaved peo- 
ple. Thoroughly intrenched behind the political platform of the domi- 
nant political party, it is hurling its missiles of death in every direction, 
and even such brave, clean men as hold many of our highest positions, 
for some reason, dare not declare war against it. So far as we are 
personally concerned, no political party east or west, north or south, 
that is in league with rum can have our support. The whisky fiend 
works such havoc that, were we not so calloused by its very common- 
ness, we would be shocked beyond expression. An exchange furnishes 
the following list of victims in our own land, not speaking of the much 
larger wreckage elsewhere : 

2,500 smothered babies. 

5,000 suicides. 

10,000 murderers. 

60,000 fallen girls. 

100,000 paupers. 

3,000 murdered wives. 

7,000 other murders. 

40,000 widowed mothers. 

100,000 orphaned children. 

100,000 insane. 

100,000 criminals. 

100,000 drunkards who die yearly. 

100,000 boys who take the place of the dying. 

Untold crimes, misery, woe, want, weeping, wailing, war, shame, 
disgrace, disease, degradation, debauchery, destruction, death, riot, rev- 
elry, ruin and $2,000,000,000 in cash.— Living Water. 



432 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

A VILLAGE DISGRACE. 

G is a beautiful village nestling in the hills of New York state. 

The homes are well painted. The lawn's smooth velvet is bordered with 
cement. The outward appearance would indicate a very high state of 
intelligence. 

Some time ago, a year or more, the proprietor of the public house, 
unlicensed, was indicted by the grand jury for selling intoxicating stuff. 
The preacher and the W. C. T. U. were very active in this matter. The 
entire village was very much agitated. 

The curbstone philosophers, as they kicked their heels against the 
dry goods boxes and spat and talked, said : "We'll show them preachers 
and them W. C. T. U. women what we can do; we'll have license, we 
will !" And they whittled and chewed and spat and talked. 

The election came on and these whittlers and spitters carried the 
place for license. A number of "good" men were induced to join this 
crowd and the preachers and W. C. T. U. were literally snowed under. 

Now, mark the sad results : in one year the beautiful village of 

G and its vicinity have sent to the Keeley Cure twenty subjects. 

Three have died, the direct result of the curse of the license. One died 
in the cure. Five were there from this village in one week, and the pro- 
prietor cried out in amazement: "Have you no churches in G ?" 

See what desolation these spitters and chewers have wrought for 
that beautiful village of G . 

If the good people of that village do not arouse themselves before 
the next election, when the license question is the issue, then will wives 
and mothers and angels weep, and devils and wicked men will rejoice, 

and again the question will be asked: "Are there no churches in G ?" 

— Selected by Oklahoma Star. 

THE SERPENT OF DRINK. 

Whenever the serpent of strong drink coils itself around a man, he 
is sure to go, if he does not stop short, face about and let it alone. 

I read an account of a young man some years ago, who went from 
England to the jungles of Africa with an exploring party, and while 
there caught a young boa constrictor, and for amusement he used to 
spend his spare time teaching his snake to do many wonderful tricks. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 433 

One was to coil itself around his body, and as it grew to full size it 
reached above his head and would curve over and kiss his face, and at a 
signal would drop to the ground. So, when he returned, he used to give 
exhibitions and became very popular and made money, and with that 
formed the habit of drinking. One night he was to give an exhibition 
in Manchester. The scene was set in an African jungle. A traveler 
came in view from one side of the stage and stopped and listened and 
stood spellbound. Then a rustle was heard as of the stealthily moving 
of some heavy object. Presently there appeared the head of a great snake 
with eyes like balls of fire, and it crept softly to the man and wound 
itself about him, up and over, and brought its head in line with his face. 
The man gave the signal, but the serpent had him entirely in its power, 
and with one tightening of its body, crushed the life out of its victim. 

This illustrates the drink habit as well as anything I ever heard of*. 
So I would say to you that have never started, don't begin ; and to those 
that have begun, stop before it is too late. — Frank C. Cooper, in Michigan 
Christian Advocate. 

WHY KIPLING QUIT DRINKING BEER. 

In his "American Notes," page 121, Rudyard Kipling, whose stories 
and poems are read by all the English-speaking world, tells how, in a 
concert hall in the city of Buffalo, he saw two young men get two girls 
drunk and then lead them reeling down a dark street. Mr. Kipling has 
not been a total abstainer, nor have his writings commended temperance, 
but. of that scene he writes : 

"In the heart of Buffalo there stands a magnificent building which 
the population do innocently style a music hall. Everybody comes here 
of an evening to sit around the little tables and listen to a first-class 
orchestra. Here I went with a friend — poor or boor is the man who can- 
not pick up a friend for a season in America — and here were shown the 
really smart folk of the city. 

"One sight of the evening was a horror. The little tragedy played 
itself out at a neighboring table, where two very young men and two 
very young women were seated. It did not strike me until far into the 
evening that the pimply young reprobates were making the girls drunk. 
They gave them red wine and then white, and their voices rose with the 
maiden cheeks' flushes. I watched, and the youths drank until their 



434 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

speech thickened and their eyeballs grew watery. It was sickening to 
me, because I knew what was going to happen. My friend eyed the 
group and said : 

" 'Maybe they're children of respectable people. I hardly think that, 
though, or they wouldn't be allowed out with no better escort than those 
boys. And yet the place is one where everybody comes, as you see. 
There may be little immoralities, but in that case they wouldn't be so 
hopelessly overcome with two or three glasses of wine. They may 
be ' 

"But whatever they were they got intolerably drunk — there in that 
lovely hall, surrounded by the best of Buffalo society. One could do 
nothing except invoke the judgment of Heaven on those two boys, 
themselves half sick with liquor. 

"At the close of the musical performance the quieter maiden laughed 
vacantly and protested she could not keep her feet. The four linked 
arms and staggering, flickered out into the street — drunk, gentlemen 
and ladies, as Davy's swine — drunk as lords. They disappeared down a 
side avenue, but I could hear their laughter until long after they were 
out of sight. And they were all children of 16 or 17. 

"Then, recanting previous opinions, I became a Prohibitionist. 
Better is it that a man should go without his beer in public places and 
content himself with swearing at the narrowmindedness of the majority ; 
better it is to poison the inside with very vile temperance drinks, and to 
buy lager furtively at back doors, than to bring temptation to the lips 
of young fools, such as the four I had seen. I understand now why the 
preachers rage against drink. I have said, 'There is no harm in it, taken 
moderately,' and yet, my own demand for beer helped to send those two 
girls reeling down the dark street to — God only knows what end. If 
liquor is worth drinking, it is worth taking a little trouble to come at 
— such trouble as a man will undergo to compass his own desires. It 
is not good that we shall let it lie before the eyes of children, and I have 
been a fool in writing to the contrary." — Tract. 

GEN. FRED GRANT ON DRINK. 

Gen. Frederick D. Grant, in an interview with a representative of 
the Defender, in 1906, said: 

"Tell the young men through your paper that Gen. Grant does not 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 435 

drink a drop of liquor — has not for eighteen years; because he is afraid 
to drink it. 

"Now, you listen," continued the general. "When I was a boy at 
school, and at West Point, I was a pet because of the greatness of my 
father. I was given every opportunity to drink, and I did drink — some. 
As I got older and mixed with men, war-scarred veterans who fought 
with my father would come up and, for the sake of old times, ask me to 
celebrate with them the glory of past events, and I did — some. 

"Then when I was made minister to Austria the customs of the 
country and my official position almost compelled me to drink, always. 
I tried to drink with extreme moderation, because I knew that alcohol 
is the worst poison a man could take into his system ; but I found out it 
was an impossibility to drink moderately. 

"I could not say, when drink was placed before me: 'No, I only 
drink in the morning,' or at certain hours. The fact that I indulged at 
all compelled me to drink on every occasion or be absurd. 

"For that reason, because moderate drinking is a practical impos- 
sibility, I became an absolute teetotaler — a crank, if you please. I will 
not allow it even in my house. When a man can say, T never drink/ 
he never has to drink, is never urged to drink, never offends by not 
drinking; at least that is my experience. Remember, I do not say 'Mod- 
erate drinking is harmful.' The fact is, maybe, it isn't so harmful, but 
this fact is indisputable — the hard drinker was once a moderate drinker, 
and the chances are all against a moderate drinker remaining such, and I 
— well, I, for one, don't propose to take such chances. 

"I knew a man — may be two or three — who died moderate drinkers. 
The stuff didn't seem to hurt them much. But the poor devils that I 
know, scores and scores of them, intelligent men, talented and all that, 
who have been ruined, disgraced by the greatest curse of Christendom, 
drink! Ah, the picture is a sad one. 

"In many respects a hard drinker is safer in the army and else- 
where, than a moderate drinker. That is, one who gets drunk once a 
year or so. You see, a hard drinker is known. No important commis- 
sion is ever his to execute. But your moderate drinker, why, he's appar- 
ently reliable. On the surface he's all right. Consequently he's given an 
important duty to perform. Then he drinks. He's sure to, just at that 
critical time, to steady his nerves — infernal idiocy — and fails ignomini- 
ously to himself and his family and disastrously to others. 



436 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"Give me the sober man, the absolute teetotaler every time. He's 
dependable. If I had the greatest appointive powers in the country, no 
man would get even the smallest appointment from me unless he showed 
proof of his absolute teetotalism. 

"If I could, by offering my body a sacrifice, free this country from 
this fell cancer, the demon drink, I'd thank the Almighty for the privi- 
ledge of doing- it." — Tract. 

WILSON WHISKY. 

The Chicago Daily American of November 23rd contained a very 
striking advertisement. One whole page of this large daily contained 
just two words. Directly in the center appeared the words, "Wilson 
Whisky." As we looked at these words, and at the large white vacant 
space surrounding them, we thought what chapters might be printed 
thereon, beginning with the letters of the alphabet. Alms-houses filled, 
Broken hearts, Criminals produced, Drunkard's doom, Families ruined, 
Groans unnumbered, Homes scattered, Idiots born, Jails filled, Killed 
by rum, Losses how great, Murders many, Night horrors a plenty, Or- 
phans by scores, Saloons, yes, indeed, Thugs, how they breed, Villains 
by scores, Wasted lives, O yes, "Xtra pale" faces (in death), Youths de- 
coyed and then destroyed. 

A reformed man, who was lecturing in Illinois, sat at a hotel dining 
table. Some guests wished to call attention to the lecturer. One of 
them lifted a glass of water and holding it in his hand said: "Frank, 
what's the difference between a glass of water and a glass of whisky?" 
The other in a drawling tone of voice answered, "T-e-n-c-e-n-t-s." 
Would to God that were all. What is there of misery, crime, wretched- 
ness and woe that is not traceable to the demon whisky. What but 
rum can at one and the same time ruin man in body, soul and spirit? 
Think of this. Thou red syrup of hell. Thou enticing, alluring, destroy- 
ing, damning fluid, would that thou wert swept from this fair earth. O, 
my brother, let it alone ere it ruin thee for time and eternity. 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN THE RUMSELLER AND 

THE DEVIL. 

To His Satanic Majesty: 

Dear Sir — I have opened apartments, fitted up with all the entice- 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 437 

merits of luxury, for the sale of rum, wine, gin, brandy, beer, and all their 
compounds. Our schemes, though different, can best be attained by 
united action. I therefore propose a co-partnership. All I want of men 
is their money — all the rest shall be yours. 

Bring me the industrious, the respectable, the sober, and I will 
return them to you drunkards, paupers and beggars. 

Bring me the child, and I will dash to earth the dearest hopes of 
the father and mother. 

Bring me the father and mother, and I will plant discord between 
them, and make them a curse, and a reproach to their children. 

Bring me the young man, and I will ruin his character, destroy 
his health, shorten his life, and blot out the highest and purest hopes 
of youth. 

Bring me the young woman, and I will destroy her virtue and re- 
turn her to you a blasted and withered thing — an instrument to lead 
others to destruction. 

Bring me the mechanic and laborer, and their own money — the 
hard-earned fruit of toil — shall be made to plant poverty, vice and 
ignorance in their once happy homes. 

Bring me the professed follower of Christ, and I will blight and 
wither every devotional feeling of his heart, and send him forth to plant 
infidelity and crime among men. 

Bring me the minister of the Gospel, and I will defile the purity 
of the church and make the name of religion a stench in the land. 

Bring me the lawyer and the judge, and I will pervert justice, 
break up the integrity of our civil institutions, and the name of law shall 
become a hissing and a by-word in the streets. 

Awaiting your reply, I am, yours truly, 

A RUMSELLER. 
Reply. 

"My dear Brother — I address you by this endearing appellation 
because of the congeniality of our spirits, and of the great work we are 
both engaged in. 

I most cordially accept your proposals. During 6,000 years I have 
vainly sought for a man to do this work— one so fully after my own heart 
as you are. I ransacked the lowest depths of hell for spirits who could 
do for me the whole work of destruction. But little success attended 
their efforts. 



438 STORIES OF HELLAS COMMERCE 

I sent out the demon, Murder, and he slew a few thousands, most 
generally the hopeless and the innocent. But his mission was a failure. 

I bade my servant, Lust, go forth. He led innocent youths and 
beautiful maidens in chains, destroying virtue, wrecking happiness, 
blasting character, and causing untimely deaths and dishonored graves. 
But even then, many of the victims escaped through the power of God, 
my enemy. 

I sent out Avarice, and in his golden chains some were bound, but 
men soon learned to hate him for his meanness, and comparatively few 
fell by him. 

The twin brothers, Pestilence and War, went forth, and Famine 
followed behind them, but these slew indiscriminately the old and the 
young, women and children, the good as well as the bad, and Heaven 
gained as many accessions as Hell. 

In sadness my Satanic heart mourned over the probable loss of my 
crown and kingdom, as I contemplated the tremendous strides which 
the Gospel of Christ was making in saving men from my clutches. But 
when I received your welcome letter I shouted till the welkin of Hell 
rang again, "Eureka! Eureka!! I have, found him!!! I have found 
him ! ! ! !" 

My dear friend, I could have embraced you a thousand times. I 
have given orders to reserve for you a place nearest my person — the most 
honorable seat in pandemonium. In you are combined all the qualifica- 
tions of just such a friend and partner as I have long wished for. In 
your business are all the elements of success. Now shall my throne be 
established forever. Only carry out your designs, and you shall have 
money, though it be wrung from the broken hearts of helpless women, 
and from the mouths of innocent, perishing children. Though you fill 
the jails, workhouses and poorhouses — though you crowd the insane 
asylums — though you make murder, incest and arson to abound, and 
erect scaffolds and gallows in every village, town and city, you shall have 
money. 

I will also harden your heart so that your conscience will not trouble 
you. You shall think yourself a gentleman, though men and women — 
your victims — shall call you a demon. You shall be devoid of the fear 
of God, the horrors of the grave, and the solemnities of eternity; and 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 439 

when you come to me your works shall produce you a reward forever. 

Yours to the very last, 

LUCIFER. 
— Written by H. S. Parmalee. 

"NEW YORK'S WILDEST ORGY." 

An Awful Chapter in the Story of the Decline and Fall of American 
Greatness— The Ruin of Wine— "Nothing but Wine." 

(The New York World presents to its readers a picture of what it 
calls "The wildest orgy that ever took place in New York." It intro- 
duces the story with the statement that during the last ten years there 
has grown up, with constant increase, a custom of celebrating New 
Year's eve in New York; that it began with a few people having late 
dinners in prominent restaurants, but that the present year 75,000 peo- 
ple attended such dinners in fashionable New York hotels and restau- 
rants, and spent at least $600,000 for champagne, to say nothing of the 
cost of the dinners and of the carriages. The World says that it sent 
to see that orgy, not ministers, nor people unaccustomed to the ways 
of New York, but "an experienced newspaper woman and a seasoned 
newspaper man." Written by such people and published in the World, 
the story is told in articles from which the following are brief extracts. 
The Prohibition papers of the country have sometimes taxed their cre- 
dulity in their descriptions of similar scenes and have frequently been 
accused of exaggeration and misrepresentation. It is not now recalled 
that they have ever told a story as startling as that here recorded by a 
"purely secular" paper. — Editorial Note.) 

Midnight. Just a few women were drunk here and there. But it 
was a gentle intoxication. Nothing but wine. True, its degrading 
effects were the same as if the cause were the slops dispensed in a 
mixed ale dive, but here were women in costly gowns, bejeweled with 
gems of price, who drank nothing but wine. 

One o'clock. More drunken women on nothing but wine. Two 
o'clock and more. Sentimentally maudlin women singing songs, bitter 
women in whom nothing but wine aroused old hates, jealousies and ani- 
mosities. 

Some were led off, some staggered off to the retiring rooms deathly 
sick on nothing but wine. 



440 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

As the New Year grew older all shame or concealment died down in 
the dressing rooms. The doors stood open, maids and attendants, who 
also had had nothing but wine, worked perfunctorily with ice bags and 
restoratives over the retching and comatose. 

This was not alone in one place, but in all the women's retiring 
rooms in every great hotel and restaurant on Broadway. 

It was the slaughter of the sophisticated at the battle of the bottle. 
Nothing but wine. 

The worn-out women attendants were "choice" now. So many 
were on their hands that they ministered only to those of celebrity or 
to the women conscious enough to tip liberally first. 

Women got as far as the door and fell over in stupor from noth- 
ing but wine. There they lay. "Down and out and all in," said the 
maids, helping only those who could still speak or stagger. 

Jewels fell from burnished locks or from gowns torn open for more 
air or easement from qualms. Paris dresses, bedraggled and polluted, 
were torn and disheveled as their owners were dragged out of the gang- 
way. 

Drunken men clamored at the doors, "Wher'sh my wife? She lef 
me an hour ago !" 

"Aw, come in and pick her out!" snapped the maids, if tHe man 
gave no indication of coming like the Greeks with gifts. Did he wave 
a bill, assistance was forthcoming to carry his lady to a cab. 

But as the hours crept on to the dawn and the number and help- 
lessness of the drunken women increased, and when all semblance of 
dressing room decorum and segregation was thrown to the winds, 
drunken escorts came in the doors to "pick 'em out." Sometimes they 
picked out the right one, but in several cases they picked out one better 
of looks or of less bulk to carry. Who cared on the morning following 
New Year's even, the night of nothing but wine? 

Think this no fanciful picture. Hold up your hands in horror no 
more when told of wretched women lifted from the gutter and carried 
on hand barrows to the station houses of a Saturday night in London, 
Liverpool, Belfast, and other towns of Britain where such things be. 

These were not the gin-swilling wives of mechanics. They were 
New York women "of the gay set," many that say of themselves, "We 
are decent." They did not stagger out from the public bar to fall in the 
kennel, stupefied with the cheapest and vilest of liquors. They were 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 441 

"ladies," they were carried out to cabs. They had drunk nothing but 
wine. 

They numbered not two or ten or even twenty. Their name was 
legion. And every retiring room was the shameful scene of nothing but 
wine. — The National Prohibitionist. 

WHAT WHISKEY MADE OF A FATHER. 

A man walked into his home — a big, strong man physically — and 
when his wife met him he knocked her down. She fled shrieking into an 
inner room and locked the door. 

Mary, the man's daughter, a child five years old, fell to her knees 
and clung to him, and cried out, sobbing, "Don't kill mamma, papa !" 

He patted her head and told her to get her brother, Edward. Ed- 
ward, a boy of six, came. 

The man drew a revolver and shot his two little weeping and 
trembling children. Then he blew his own brains out. 

"He was a good man," said his wife to the police, her face all torn 
and blackened by his blows. "He was a good man, and he never treated 
me badly before." 

What suddenly transformed this usually good husband and kind 
father into a ferocious demon, a murdering wild beast? 

Drink ! 

He was Frederick Dietscher, a driver for the health department, and 
he paid out the hard-earned money that should have gone to his family, 
that he might become a slaughtering lunatic. Insanity by the bottle, 
by the glass, may be as readily purchased as are matches to start fires 
with. 

Some men, many men, can play with alcohol. They can warm them- 
selves with it as they do at the genial heat of a grate; but to such as 
Dietscher a glass of whisky is like a match to a heap of hay — it started 
a conflagration. 

Let drink alone, young man. It has never helped anybody, but it 
has ruined and is ruining millions in mind, and body and pocket. It 
turns kind-hearted men into cruel men, loving husbands into wife beat- 
ers, fond fathers into slayers of their children. 

Look at Dietscher. See what whisky did for him and his. That 
one horror should be enough to shock countless thousands of tipplers 



442 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

into total abstainers for the rest of their lives. — Selected by Herald of 
Light. 

STORY OF A JACKKNIFE. 

More than 70 years ago a young man owned a jackknife, which he 
sold for a gallon of rum, and by retailing it by the glass made enough 
to buy two gallons, and by selling that he was enabled to increase the 
quantity he purchased. He got a barrel, then a cask, and at last a large 
stock, and having a turn for business and industry he became rich — 
and when he died he left $80,000 to his three sons and one daughter. 
The daughter married a man, who spent her money, and then she died. 
The sons entered into folly and extravagance and two died of dissipation 
and in poverty. The last of the family lived for many years on the 
charity of those who had known him in his prosperity. 

He died a short time since, suddenly, in a barn, where he laid him- 
self to take a drunken sleep. On his pockets being examined, all that 
was found in them was a string and a jackknife. 

So a jackknife began and ended the fortune of that family. 

This is a true story; and the father, who bought and sold rum, no 
doubt had plenty of it in his house and on his table. In giving and 
recommending it to others, his sons learned to like it, and so it hap- 
pened according to the true proverb, "What is got on the devil's back 
goes under his belly ." 

The curse of God is on ill-gotten gain, but "the blessing of the 
Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it." Prov. 10:22. — 
Safeguard. 

PLAYING THE FOOL; 

One time an industrious shoemaker fell into the habit of spending 
much of his time in a saloon near his shop. When his wife would re- 
monstrate with him for it, he would say, "Oh, I've just been down a 
little while playing pool." 

His two-year-old boy heard him, and said, "Is you going down to 
play fool, papa?" 

He tried in vain to correct this word. Day by day he would ask 
his father, "Has you been playing fool?" 



^ STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 443 

It made a deep impression on him, but his mind was so weakened 
by drink, that he constantly yielded to the temptation. Finally his busi- 
ness was gone, and he found himself out of money, flour and work. 
Idle and despondent, he exclaimed, "No work again today, what am I 
to do, I do not know !" 

"Why, papa," prattled the baby, "can't you go and play fool some 
more ?" 

"Oh, hush, you poor child, that is just the trouble. Papa has played 
the fool too much already. Intemperance always makes a man play 
the fool.'— Way of Faith. 

THE COST OF A BOY. 

It would be a good thing for all boys, and girls, too, to get some 
idea — in real figures — of what their parents do for them. P. B. Frisk 
gave a lecture on the cost of a boy. He computes that at the age of 
fifteen a good boy, receiving the advantage of a city life, will cost, count- 
ing compound interest on the sum invested, not less than $5,000. At 
twenty-one he will not cost any more unless he goes to college, when 
it will cost nearly twice as much. A bad boy costs about $10,000 at 
twenty-one, if he does not go to college. If he does, it costs as much 
more. And when a man has put $10,000 or $20,000 into a boy, what has 
he a right to expect of him? What is fair? Is it fair for a boy to work 
himself to death, to run, jump, play ball or do in such a way as would 
disable or break him down? Is it fair for him to despise his father and 
neglect his mother? Is it fair for him to ruin himself with drink, defile 
himself with tobacco, or stain himself with sin? Some of us have put 
about all of our property into boys and girls, and if we lose them, we 
shall be poor indeed ; while if they do well, we shall be repaid a hundred 
fold. Boys, what do you think about the matter? — Selected by Way of 
Faith. 

A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 

In a railway car a man about sixty years old came to sit beside me. 
He had heard me lecture the evening before on temperance. "I am the 
master of a ship," said he, "sailing out of New York, and have just re- 
turned from my fiftieth voyage across the Atlantic. About thirty years 



444 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

ago I was a sot, shipped while dead drunk, and was carried on board like 
a log. When I came to, the captain asked me, 'Do you remember your 
mother?' I told him she died before I could remember. 'Well,' said 
he, 'I am a Vermont man. When I was young I was crazy to go to sea. 
At last my mother consented I should seek my fortune. "My boy," she 
said, "I don't know much about towns, and I never saw the sea, but they 
tell me they make thousands of drunkards. Now, promise me you'll 
never drink a drop of liquor." He said, 'I laid my hands in her's and 
promised, as I looked into her eyes for the last time. She died soon after. 
I've been on every sea, seen the worst kind of life and men — they laughed 
at me as a milksop and wanted to know if I was a coward. But when 
they offered me liquor I saw my mother's pleading face and I never 
drank a drop. It has been my sheet anchor ; I owe it all to that. Would 
you like to take that pledge?' said he." My companion took it, and he 
added, "It has saved me. I have a fine ship, wife and children at home, 
and I have helped others." 

That earnest mother saved two men to virtue and usefulness — how 
many more He who sees all alone can tell. — Wendell Phillips. 

THE DYING CHILD'S PRAYER FOR HER DRUNKEN FATHER. 

A child from a poor family had an intemperate father, who often 
used to abuse his wife and children. This child had been to Sunday 
school — had become pious. The physician told the father that his little 
girl would die. No! he did not believe it. Yes, she will — she must die 
in a few hours. The father flew to the bedside ; would not part with her, 
he said. 

"Yes, father, you must part with me, I am going to Jesus. Promise 
me two things. One is, that you won't abuse mother any more, and will 
drink no more whisky." 

He promised in a solemn, steady manner. The little girl's face 
lighted up with joy. 

"The other thing is, promise me that you will pray," said the child. 

"I cannot pray ; don't know how," said the poor man. 

"Father, kneel down, please. There, take the words from me, I will 
pray; I learned how to pray at Sunday school, and God has taught me 
how to pray, too; my heart prays, you must let your heart pray. Now 
say the words." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 445 

And she began in her simple language to pray to the Savior of sin- 
ners. After a little while he began to repeat after her; as he went on his 
heart was interested, and he broke out into an earnest prayer for him- 
self; bewailed his sins, confessed and promised to forsake them; entered 
into a covenant with God ; light broke out upon him in his darkness ; how 
long he prayed he did not know; he seemed to have forgotten his child 
fn prayer. When he came to himself he raised his head from the bed 
on which he had rested it ; there lay the little speaker, a lovely smile was 
upon the face, her little hand was in that of the father, but she had gone 
to be among the angels. — Power of Prayer, by Prime. 

WHY HE QUIT DRINKING. 

A professional gentleman, who was accustomed to take his morn- 
ing glass, stepped into a saloon, and, going up to the bar, called for 
whisky. A seedy individual stepped up to him and said: 

"I say, squire, can't you ask an unfortunate fellow to join you?" 

He was annoyed by the man's familiarity and roughly told him : 

"I am not in the habit of drinking with tramps." 

The tramp replied: 

"You need not be so cranky and high-minded, my friend. I venture 
to say that I am of just as good a family as you are, have just as good 
an education, and before I took to drink was just as respectable as you 
are. What is more, I always knew how to act the gentleman. Take my 
word for it, you stick to John Barleycorn, and he will bring you to just 
the same place as I am." 

Struck with his words, the gentleman set down his glass and turned 
to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face bloated, his boots mis- 
mated, his clothing filthy. 

"Then it was drink that made you like this ?" 

"Yes, it was, and it will bring you to the same if you stick to it." 

Picking up his untouched glass, he poured the contents upon the 
floor and said, "Then it's time I quit/ and left the saloon, never to enter it 
again. — Selected by Sunday School Messenger. 

I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES. 

Near the close of a lovely June day a company of brilliant men 



446 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

gathered at a garden banquet. The pavilion was set among beds of 
flowers, and opened toward the west. 

The table was a dream of beauty with its fruits and flowers, its 
flashing glass and glittering silver. Some of the noblest of the land 
sat around the board. Among them was an eager, bright-eyed boy, 
brought to his first club dinner by his father, an honored judge. 

Wit and wisdom sparkled back and forth and wine gleamed like 
ruby and amber. The boy saw and heard everything. This was an 
enchanted land. For the first time he looked upon the faces and heard 
the voices of great men who had been his heroes from afar. Their 
words, their bearing, their dress, were full of interest. Yet of all this 
goodly company, to him his father was the king. 

An empty glass stood by his plate — a dainty shell with points that 
caught the light like diamonds. A waiter stopped beside him with a 
tray of costly drinks and named them over glibly, questioning: "What 
will you take?" 

The judge was an abstainer at home. The boy had never tasted 
wine. The names were strange to him. But he said with ready con- 
fidence, "I'll take what father takes." The father heard. The glass in 
his uplifted hand shed over it a crimson light like blood. All eyes 
were upon him. Was he afraid to drink? In a swift vision he saw 
the serpent in the cup. For policy, for pride, for social custom should 
he set this deadly thing upon his best beloved? There was a hush as 
he set down the untasted wine and said distinctly, "I'll take water — 
cold water." — Crusader's Monthly. 

A SHARP REJOINDER. 

Some years ago the Rev. E. Klumph, while seated in a village store, 
accosted a saloonkeeper with the remark: 

"Come over to the church to-night and hear me lecture on tem- 
perance." 

The reply was : "I won't ; you said whiskey-sellers were robbers." 

"I didn't," was the reply of Mr. Klumph. 

"What did you say?" 

"I said you were worse than a robber. I said you took my innocent 
boy and sent me home a maudlin fool. I said you took an intelligent 
man and sent a lunatic to the asylum. I said you took a respected 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 447 

citizen and sent a criminal to prison. I said you took a kind father and 
sent a fiend to throw his family into the street. I said you took a 
loving husband and sent a demon to kick his wife. I said you took the 
immortal soul and sent it to hell. I said you were worse than a robber." 
Sharp, and yet terribly true. — National Temperance Advocate. 

NERVELESS DRINKERS. 

"I take a drink when I feel like it," said a Canal Street business 
man, "and can't see that it has ever done me any harm, but I witnessed 
a little episode this morning that has haunted me ever since, and has 
forced me to do a whole lot of thinking. 

"I had stepped into a bar very early to get a cocktail, and while it 
was being compounded, a middle-aged gentleman came and asked one 
of the attendants to pour him out a little plain whiskey. He was care- 
fully dressed, and had all the marks of refinement and good breeding, 
and his request was so unusual that I turned involuntarily to look at 
him. The bartender exhibited no surprise, and placed half of a small 
glass of whiskey at his elbow, but the instant he stretched out his hand, 
I saw that the man was on the verge of nervous collapse. He shook 
like an aspen, and when he finally managed to seize the tumbler, its 
contents flew in every direction. 'Let me assist you, Colonel,' said the 
bartender quietly, and pouring out another drink, he leaned over and 
held it to his lips. The man said nothing, but gave him a haggered look 
that went into my heart like a knife. My God! what a look! Shame, 
humiliation and abject animal terror. It started the sweat on me like 
water. Well, he drank his whiskey, stood still for a minute as if 
gathering himself together, and sauntered out as cool as ever. 

"I asked the bartender if he had many such customers, and he 
laughed. 'Lots of 'em,' he said. 'There isn't a first-class bar in town/ 
he went on, 'that don't patch up a few old boys like that every morning. 
They are not drunkards, but they've been at it so many years that their 
nerves are gone, and, although they don't know it, they are working 
on absolutely nothing but whiskey. As soon as they get a little fresh 
fuel in the morning, they are all right, but they come in scared and 
out of their wits, and thinking they're going to drop dead every minute. 
I'll bet that gentleman you saw can sign his name now without a 
quiver.' I walked out reflecting." — Way of Faith. 



448 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

THEY HOLD THE KEY. 

Rev. Dr. French, of the Park Presbyterian Church, Newark, in 
preaching on "Our Creed" for 1898, paid the following compliment to the 
influence of women. He said : 

"You may laugh, deny or deride, as you please, but we announce 
as our solemn conviction that the young maidens of this country and 
generation hold the key to the solution of the whole question of tem- 
perance and intemperance among our young men; that their combined 
and resolute action, if it could be secured, would do more to stop the 
drinking habit of young men and shut up the saloons than all the tem- 
perance societies, crusades and pledges in the world. 

"If the marriageable young women would enter into a solemn 
covenant with themselves and with each other that they would never 
accept the attentions, with view to marriage, of any young men who 
frequent the saloon or are in the habit of tippling, and then would 
keep their vow, there would be a revolution in society to which the 
Reformation in Europe would seem but a ripple. 

"Let the young maidens say, 'Never will we put our hearts, our 
hopes, our happiness into the keeping of young men who, soon after 
the honeymoon is past, will spend their earnings in the saloon and their 
evenings at the club, leaving us to loneliness, and only to certain misery !' 
Let them say, 'As soon would we have the tongue of a viper touch our 
lips as accept the proffered kiss of any young man whose breath is 
redolent of whiskey or brandy!' 

"Let them say to the dashing young fellows, however rich or hand- 
some or polite or suave they may be: 'No, sir! When you show your- 
selves the men who believe that a woman's life and heart and happiness 
are too holy things- to be trifled with, and worth infinitely more than 
the indulgence of your selfish and debasing appetites, then come to 
us like true men, and we will give you that which is better than a 
dozen fortunes — a true, faithful loving woman's heart that will cleave 
to yours until you die.' 

"With all my soul, I believe that such a coalition among the young 
women of America would stand next to the universal grace of God, in 
its power to banish intemperance from our land, and make it the 
paradise regained of virtue and moral beauty." — National Advocate. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 449 

CONQUERED BY A DRINKING CUP. 

Alexander the Great made an imperial banquet at Babylon, and 
though he had been drinking the health of guests all one night, and all 
the next day, the second night he had twenty guests, and he drank 
the health of each separately. Then calling for the cup of Hercules, the 
giant, a monster cup, he filled and drained it twice to show his endurance ; 
but as he finished the last draught from the cup of Hercules, the giant, 
he dropped in a fit, from which he never recovered. 

Alexander, who conquered Sardis, and conquered Halicarnassus, 
and conquered Asia, and conquered the world, could not conquer him- 
self. And there is a threatening peril that this good land of ours, having 
conquered all with whom it has gone into battle, may yet be overthrown 
by the cup of the giant evil of our land, that Hercules of infamy — strong 
drink. Do not let the staggering embruted host of drunkards go into the 
next century looking for insane asylums, alms-houses, and delirium 
tremens, and dishonored graves. — Talmage. 

A POLICEMAN'S TESTIMONY. 

A number of young men were once sitting around the fire in the 
waiting-room at the Normanton Station of the Midland Railway, 
England, talking about total abstinence societies. Just then a police- 
man came in with a prisoner in handcuffs. He listened to the young- 
men's conversation, but did not give any opinion. There was also in the 
room, Mr. McDonald, a minister of the gospel, who, hearing what the 
young men were saying, stepped up to the policeman and said: 

"Pray, sir, what have you got to say about temperance?" 

The policeman replied : 

"Why, all I've got to say is that I never took a teetotaler to York 
Castle (prison) in my life, nor to Wakefield House of Correction either." 
— Selected by Church Herald. 

WHISKEY'S DEADLY WORK. 

Burned so that he is suffering agonies, and will be scarred hideously 
for life, a handsome, intelligent little boy of seven years lies moaning in 
Bellevue hospital. 

How did the child receive these horrible burns? 



450 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE __^ 

A woman, at 2 o'clock in the morning, took the lids from the kitchen 
stove and held the boy's face over the fire till his cheek was scorched to 
the bone and one eye was so seared that he will never see with it again. 

To the neighbors and police who broke in the door the screaming 
little one pointed to a woman lying on a lounge and said that she had 
done this awful thing. He had annoyed her by not going to sleep. 

The woman was the child's mother ! 

What had driven mother love out and let fiendish cruelty and fury 
into that woman's heart? 

Whiskey ! 

Whiskey, always whiskey. It works the devil's miracles for him by 
transforming human beings into demons. 

The scarred and tortured child lying on the hospital cot asks for his 
mother, cries for her. He fears that something will be done to her for 
what she did to him. She was a loving and kind mother to her boy 
when she was herself — all the neighbors testify to that. But trouble, 
separation from her husband and the strain of making a poor livelihood 
as seamstress caused her to seek the false solace of drink, and drink 
drove her in madness to a crime of which she would have been less 
capable than of suicide when in her sober senses. 

Willie Goggin's Story. 

"Mamma built the fire with wood and kerosene. 

"Then she left the lid off the stove and laid me on the fire on my 
face. 

"Mamma had been drinking all the evening with another lady in 
the flat. 

"They went to several places and took me along. I was so tired and 
sleepy when we came home I just could not stay awake. So T sat down 
in the rocking chair and fell asleep, while mamma built the fire. 

"I woke up when she had the wood and kerosene in the stove, and 
began to take off my shoes and stockings. The can, almost full of oil, 
was setting on the floor. Mother fell over it and spilled the oil all over 
the floor. 

"The fire was burning hard and the lids were off the stove. I don't 
know whether mamma was angry with me or was angry just because 
she fell down, but she picked me right up and laid me flat on top of the 
stove on my face. . She was swearing. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 451 

"She had the door locked, and put chairs in front of it, so that no 
one could come into the room." 

Mrs. Margaret Jaconi's Story of How She Saved Willie Goggin. 

"On hearing Willie's screams I rushed to the Goggin rooms and 
took him from his mother. Her mouth was set in a grim, hard line, her 
face was deathly white, her eyes were blazing with rage. 

"She fought like a tigress because I came between her and her child. 
She flung me out at the doorway and locked the door. 

"I burst it open and she attacked me. 

"She said the child was hers; she would do as she pleased with 
him ; I should not interfere. 

"She had rubbed all the burned skin off around his mouth, in the 
effort to close it with her hand, and stop his screams. His condition was 
pitiable. 

"I was determined to take that child from her if she killed me. We 
rolled all over the floor. I was fighting for Willie and I would do any- 
thing. At last I dragged her into the corner and got the child. 

"I took him downstairs, called a policeman, who took charge of Mrs. 
Goggin, and had Willie sent to the hospital for proper treatment." 

The Husband's Story. 

"Four times did I make a home for her," said the husband. "But 
the children were neglected. The meals were uncooked. Her love for 
us died. It was all the fault of liquor." 

And so they parted. The children were placed in the Catholic Pro- 
tectory by the father. 

One day, two months ago, the mother stole little Willie from the 
Protectory and brought him to her home. 

Sometimes she was good to him, but when drinking, her worst side 
was almost uppermost. 

All the mother in her died. Even in her kindest moods her love was 
purely selfish. She simply looked on her child as her property to do with 
as she willed. 

And so, when the little Italian caretaker with the expression of the 
Madonna in her dusky eyes went to Willie's rescue the mother would 
have killed her if she could. 

The most pitiable part of the awful story is that as the mother re- 
flects on it all, there is neither remorse nor repentance. 



452 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

And one hundred and thirty licenses granted in Clearfield county 
to grind such grists as this ! Who can tell what pandemonium of inhu- 
manity will be let loose during the coming year. — The New York Journal. 

ALCOHOL AHEAD. 

A thick-set, ugly-looking fellow was seated on a bench in the public 
park and seemed to be reading some writing on a sheet of paper which 
he held in his hand. 

"You seem to be very much interested in your writing," I said. 

"Yes ; I've been figuring my accounts with old alcohol to see how 
we stand." 

"And he comes out ahead, I suppose?" 

"Every time, and he has lied like sixty." 

"How did you come to have dealings with him in the first place?" 

"That's what I've been writing. You see, he promised to make 
a man of me, but he made me a beast. Then he said he would brace me 
up, but he made me go staggering around, and then threw me into the 
ditch. He said I must drink to be social. Then he made me quarrel 
with my best friends and be the laughing stock of my enemies. He 
gave me a black eye and a broken nose. Then I drank for the good of 
my health. He ruined the little I had and left me as sick as a dog." 

"Of course." 

"He said he would warm me up, and I was soon nearly frozen to 
death. He said he would steady my nerves, but instead he gave me 
delirium tremens. He said he would give me strength, and he made me 
helpless." 

"To be sure." 

"He promised me courage. Then he made me a coward, for I beat 
my sick wife and kicked my little sick child. He said he would brighten 
my wits, but instead he made me act like a fool and talk like an idiot. 
He promised to make a gentleman of me, but he made me a tramp." — 
Christian Work. 

WANTED: BOYS FOR CUSTOMERS. 

Mr. J. B. Green, superintendent of the Methodist Episcopal Sunday 
School of Opelika, Ala., on a recent temperance Sunday used the follow- 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 453 

ing with telling effect, putting it in the mouths of the saloons of that 
place : 

Wanted. 

One hundred boys for new customers. Most of our old customers 
are rapidly dropping out. 

Ten committed suicide last week. 

Twenty are in jail — eight are in the chain-gang. 

Fifteen were sent to the poorhouse — one was hanged. 

Three were sent to the insane asylum. 

Most of the balance ain't worth fooling with — they've got no money. 

We are just obliged to have new customers — fresh, young blood, 
or we will have to shut up shop. 

Don't make any difference whose boy you are — we need you. You 
will be welcome. 

If you once get started with us, we guarantee to hold you. Our 
goods are sure. 

Come early — stay late. — American Issue. 

WHO AM I? WHISKY, "THAT'S ALL." 

The following comes from the Washington County (Ala.) News, 
and it gives the testimony of the glass on its own behalf; let it speak 
for itself: 

"I am whisky, that's what I am — not Mr. Whisky, nor Colonel 
Whisky, but Plain Old Whisky. I have several aliases and pet names, 
such as "bug juice," "corn juice," "old rye," "fire water," and "oil of 
joy." Some folks call me "Soul Destroyer," "Liquid Murder," "Linger- 
ing Death," and "Rectified Ruin." I am all of these and more. I am 
"Family Disturbance," "Liquid Sin," "Bottled Death," "Crime Pro- 
voker," "Liquid Pizen." When you hear a man call for "O, Be Joyful," 
"Red Liquor," "Snake Bite," "The Cup that Cheers," or "John Barley 
Corn," you may bet your boots that it's me he's looking for. Ask thr 
bartender for "Tangle Foot," "Eye Opener," "Night Cap," "Jersey 
Lightning," "Toddy," "Mountain Dew," "Gray," or "Gooze," and he 
will set me out. If it is a "Flowing Bowl," "Nose Paint," or "Rot Gut," 
you are seeking, I am it. I am the whole push. I am bad medicine, 
that's what I am. Don't monkey with me unless you are looking for 
trouble. When I get my clutches on a man, he's my meat. Call me 



454 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

what you will, I work on the same lines. Before you tackle me, have 
your life and soul insured. All are my fish that fall in my net. Rich or 
poor, high or low, bound or free. I am no respecter of persons — man 
or woman, boy or girl, are all the same to me. I rob them of their 
honor, self-respect, money, home. I make widows and orphans, paupers 
and criminals, thieves and gamblers. Don't monkey with me, for I am 
Whisky." 

THE ITEM THAT TOLD 

A certain gentleman tells a story in connection with an agency that, 
some years ago, kept a record of the position and standing of every 
business man in the country. 

The record kept by this house gave detailed information, not only 
of the amount of property which the parties owned, but also their 
standing in regard to punctuality, integrity, temperance, morals, etc. 

The story relates that a certain firm of four men in Boston were 
considered all right. They were rich, prosperous, young and prompt. 
A friend of this firm had a curiosity to see how they were rated, and 
found these facts on the book. He was satisfied as he read. But, at the 
end of the account, these words were added: 

"But they all drink." 

A few years later, the one looking up that record found that two 
of the firm were dead, a third was a drunkard, and the fourth was poor 
and dependent partly upon charity. So it would seem that that one 
item at the end of their rating was the most important and significant 
of all the facts collected and embodied in their rating.— Selected. 

A HORRIBLE IDEA. 

According to a story which had been floating around through the 
newspapers, there are circumstances under which a "light wine" can by 
no means be called a light drink. 

An Easterner, riding on a mail stage in Northern Colorado, was 
entertained by a dialogue which was sustained upon the one side by the 
driver and upon the other by an elderly passenger, evidently a native 
of the region. 

"I understand you're temperance," began the driver. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 455 

"Yes, I'm pretty strong against liquor," returned the other. "I've 
been set against it now thirty-five years." 

"Scared it will ruin your health?" 

"Yes, but that isn't the main thing." 

"Perhaps it don't agree with you?" ventured the driver. 

"Well, it really don't agree with anybody. But that ain't it, either. 
The thing that sets me against it is a horrible idea." 

"A horrible idea! What is it?" 

"Well, thirty-five years ago I was sitting in a hotel in Denver with a 
friend of mine, and I says, 'Let's order a bottle of something,' and he 
says, 'No, sir. I'm saving my money to buy government land at one 
dollar and a quarter an acre. I'm going to buy to-morrow, and you'd 
better let me take the money you would have spent for the liquor and 
buy a couple of acres along with mine.' I says, 'All right.' So we didn't 
drink, and he bought me two acres. 

"Well, sir, to-day those two acres are right in the middle of a 
flourishing town; and if I'd taken that drink, I'd have swallowed a city 
block, a grocery store, an apothecary's, four lawyer's offices, and it's 
hard to say what else. That's the idea. Don't you think it's horrible?" 
— Selected by Gospel Herald. 

THAT SOBERED ME. 

A gentleman high in commercial circles in a Western city was 
relating some of his experiences to a group of friends. 

"I think," said he, "the most singular thing that ever happened to 
me was in Hawaii. 

"My father was a missionary in those islands, and I was born there. 
I came away at an early age, however, and most of my life has been 
spent in this country ; but when I was a young man — and a rather tough 
young man, too, I may say — I went back there once on a visit. 

"The first thing I did was to drink more than I should have done. 
While I was in this condition, an old man, a native, persuaded me to go 
home with him. He took me into his house, bathed my head, gave me 
some strong coffee and talked soothingly and kindly to me. 

" 'Old man,' I said, 'what are you doing all this to me for?' 

" 'Well,' he answered me, 'I'll tell you. The best friend I ever had 
was a white man and an American. I was a poor drunkard. He made 



456 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

a mail of me, and I hope, a Christian. All I am or ever hope to be I owe 
to him. Whenever I see an American in your condition I feel like doing 
all I can for him, on account of what that man did for me/ 

"This is a little better English than he used, but it is the substance 
of it. 

" 'What was the name of the man?' I asked him. 

" 'Mr. Blank, a missionary.' 

" 'God of mercy !' I said, 'He was my father !' 

"Gentleman, that sobered me — and, I hope, made a man of me. It is 
certain that whatever I am to-day I owe to that poor old Sandwich 
Islander." — Youth's Companion. 

DON'T MARRY A DRUNKARD. 

A young lady in Iowa, against the earnest wishes of her parents 
and the advice of her friends, married a man addicted to the use of liquor. 
He had promised he would reform, that after they were married he 
would not touch a drop of liquor, and she believed him. A year of 
married life was sufficient to dispel the illusion. The husband drank 
deeper and deeper, and sank lower and lower, till the wife felt that she 
could live with him no longer, and applied to the Supreme Court for a 
divorce. Her petition was denied, the court informing her that having 
voluntarily chosen a drunkard for a husband, she must discharge the 
duties of a drunkard's wife. "His failure to keep a pledge of reformation, 
made before marriage," said the court, "does not justify you in deserting 
him. Having knowingly married a drunkard, you must make yourself 
content with the sacred relationship." — Lutheran Observer. 

TWIN DEMONS — A COLLOQUY. 

"I am hungry," said the Grave. "Food, food, give me food!" 

Death answered, "I will send forth my ministers of destruction, and 
you shall be satisfied." 

"What ministers will you send?" 

"I will send Alcohol and Tobacco, twin demons. They shall go in 
the guise of food and medicine. The people shall drink, smoke, chew 
and die." 

And the Grave answered, "I am content if two such demons as Rum 
and Tobacco join hands in answering my wishes." 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 457 

And now the church bells begin to toll and the mournful procession 
begins to advance. 

"Who do they bring now?" said the Grave. 

"They are bringing/' said Death, "a household. The drunken father 
aimed a blow at his wife. He killed the mother and her child together, 
and then dashed out his own life. I can give you an abundance of such 
victims; they are on hand day and night." 

"And who," said the Grave, "comes next, followed by a train of 
poor, weeping children?" 

"This is a broken-hearted woman, who has long pined away in 
want, while her husband has, wasted his time and substance at the 
tavern, in drinking and smoking. And he, too, is borne behind, killed by 
the hand of violence, killed in a fashionable saloon." 

"And who comes next?" 

"A young man of noble impulses, who, step by step, became 
dissipated and squandered his all. He first smoked, then drank, then 
gambled, then embezzled his master's money, went to jail, came out, 
went from bad to worse, and my agent turned him out to be frozen in the 
street." 

"Hush !" said the Grave ; "now I hear a wail of anguish that will 
not be silenced." 

"Yes, it is the widow's cry. The old cry. It is the only son of his 
mother. He smoked, he chewed, he drank, he mingled with vile women 
and vile men. He spurned his mother's love, reviled her warnings, and 
the ragged prodigal, a bloated corpse, comes to thee. And thus they 
come, farther than the eye can reach, thousands on thousands the pro- 
cession crowds thy abodes. And still lured by the enchanting drugs and 
drinks which I have mingled, the sons of men crowd the path of dis- 
sipation. Vainly they dream of escape, but I shut behind them the 
invisible door of destiny. They know it not, and with song and dance 
and riot, they hasten to thee, O Grave! Then I throw my fatal spell 
upon the new throngs of youth, generation after generation, and soon 
they, too, will be with thee." 

"Now," said the Grave, "thy work pleases me. Continue to send 
forth these mighty agents of thine, O Death, to entice the young to first 
chew and smoke, that, mingling with the dissolute, they may learn to 
drink and fight. Enchant them with the pleasure of base appetite, that 



458 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

they may forget God and the true object of life and die early ; so shall 
our harvest be great, and we will rejoice together." 

But God shall bring every work into judgment.— Tract. 

THE GREAT DESTROYER. 

"Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say why sentence of 
death should not be passed upon you?" 

A solemn hush fell over the crowded court-room, and every person 
waited in almost breathless expectation for an answer to the judge's 
question. 

Will the prisoner answer? Is there nothing that will make him 
show some sign of emotion? Will he maintain the cold, indifferent 
attitude he has shown through the long trial even to the place of 
execution? Such were the questions that passed through the minds of 
those who had followed the case from day to day. 

The judge still waited in dignified silence. Not a whisper was heard 
anywhere, and the situation had become painfully oppressive, when- the 
prisoner was seen to move. His head was raised, his hands were 
clenched, and the blood had rushed into his pale, care-worn face, his 
teeth were firmly set, and into his haggard eyes came a flash of light. 
Suddenly he arose to his feet, and in a low, firm, but distinct voice, said : 

"I have. Your Honor, you have asked me a question, and I now 
ask, as the last favor on earth, that you will not interrupt my answer 
until I am through. 

"I stand here before this bar convicted of the wilful murder of my 
wife. Truthful witnesses have testified to the fact that I was a loafer, 
a drunkard, and a wretch ; that I returned from one of my long debauches 
and fired the fatal shot that killed the wife I had sworn to love, cherish 
and protect. While I have no remembrance of committing the fearful, 
cowardly and inhuman deed, I have no right to complain or condemn the 
verdict of twelve good men who have acted as jurors in this case, for 
their verdict is in accordance with the evidence. 

"But, may it please the court, I wish to show the court that I am 
not alone responsible for the murder of my wife !" 

This startling statement created a tremendous sensation. The judge 
leaned over the desk, the lawyers wheeled around and faced the prisoner, 
the jurors looked at each other in amazement, while the spectators could 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 459 

hardly suppress their intense excitement. The prisoner paused a few 
seconds, and then continued in the same firm, distinct voice: 

"I repeat, your Honor, that I am not the only one guilty of the 
murder of my wife. The judge on this bench, the jury in the box, the 
lawyers within this bar, and most of the witnesses, including the pastor 
of the old church, are also guilty before Almighty God, and will have to 
appear with me before the judgment throne, where we all shall be 
righteously judged. 

"If twenty men conspire together for the murder of one person, the 
law power of this land will arrest the twenty, and each will be tried, 
convicted and executed for the whole murd'er, and not one-twentieth 
of the crime. 

"I have been made a drunkard by law. If it had not been for the 
legalized saloons of my town, I never would have become a drunkard, my 
wife would not have been murdered ; I would not be here now, ready to 
be hurled into eternity. Had it not been for the human traps set out with 
the consent of the government, I would have been a sober man, an 
industrious workman, a tender father and a loving husband. But to-day 
my home is destroyed, my wife murdered, my little children — God bless 
and care for them — cast on the mercy of a cold and cruel world, while 
I am to be murdered by the strong arm of the state. 

"God knows I tried to reform, but as long as the open saloon was 
in my pathway, my weak, diseased will power was no match against the 
fearful, consuming, agonizing appetite for liquor. At last I sought the 
protection, care and sympathy of the Church of Jesus Christ ; but at the 
communion table I received from the hand of the pastor who sits there, 
and who has testified against me in this case, the cup that contained the 
very same alcoholic serpent that is found in every bar-room in the land. 
It proved too much for my weak humanity, and out of that holy place I 
rushed to the last debauch that ended with the murder of my wife. 

"For one year our town was without a saloon. For one year I was 
a sober man. For one year my wife and' children were supremely happy, 
and our little home a perfect paradise. 

"I was one of those who signed the remonstrance against reopening 
the saloons in our town. The names of one-half of this jury can be found 
to-day on the petition certifying to the good moral character (?) of the 
rumsellers, and falsely saying that the sale of liquor was 'necessary' in 
our own town. The prosecuting attorney in this case was the one who 



460 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

so eloquently pleaded with this court for the license, and the judge who 
sits on this bench, and who asked me if I had anything to say before sen- 
tence of death was passed upon me, granted the license." 

The impassioned words of the prisoner fell like coals of fire upon the 
hearts of those present, and many of the spectators and some of the 
lawyers were moved to tears. The judge made a motion as if to stop 
any further speech on the part of the prisoner, when the speaker hastily 
said: 

"No! no! your Honor, do not close my lips; I am nearly through, 
and they are the last words I shall ever utter on earth. 

"I began my downward career at a saloon bar — legalized and pro- 
tected by the voters of this commonwealth, which has received annually 
a part of the blood money from the poor, deluded victims. After the 
state has made me a drunkard and a murderer, I am taken before another 
bar — the bar of justice (?) — by the same power of law that legalized the 
first bar, and now the law-power will conduct me to the place of execu- 
tion and hasten my soul into eternity. I shall appear before another bar 
— the judgment bar of God, and there you who have legalized the traffic 
will have to appear with me. Think you that the Great Judge will hold 
me — the poor, weak, helpless victim of your traffic — alone responsible for 
the murder of my wife ? Nay ; I, in my drunken, frenzied, irresponsible 
condition have murdered one, but you have deliberately and wilfully 
murdered your thousands, and the murder-mills are in full operation 
to-day with your consent. 

"All of you know in your hearts that these words of mine are not 
the ravings of an unsound mind, but God Almighty's truth. The liquor 
traffic of this nation is responsible for nearly all the murders, blood- 
shed, riots, poverty, misery, wretchedness and woe. It breaks up 
thousands of happy homes every year, sends the husband and father to 
prison or to the gallows, and drives countless mothers and little children 
into the world to suffer and die. It furnishes nearly all the criminal 
business of this and every other court, and blasts every community it 
touches. 

"You legalized the saloons that made me a drunkard and a murderer, 
and you are guilty with me before God and man for the murder of my 
wife. 

"Your Honor, I am done. I am now ready to receive my sentence 
and be led forth to the place of execution, and murdered according to 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 461 

the laws of this state. You will close by asking the Lord to have mercy 
on my soul. I will close by solemnly asking God to open your blind 
eyes to the truth, to your individual responsibility, so that you will 
cease to give your support to this hell-born traffic." — Tallie Morgan in 
Youth's Outlook. 

HOW A DRUNKARD WAS SAVED. 

I know a man, a carter in Glasgow, who was a drunkard and never 
thought about God or his soul. 

There came a time when God saw fit to take to Himself the 
drunkard's little girl, who was loved by her father with all his heart. 

The night before the funeral, the man took his two other little 
girls into the room to have a last look at their sister. There they all 
wept together bitterly. 

After standing in the death-chamber a little while, one of the wee 
girls clasped her father round the knees and said, through her tears : 

"Has Jeanie gone to heaven?" 

"Yes, dearie," said the heart-broken father. 

"Will I go one day?" asked the little girl again. 

"Yes," said the father, "if you're a good girl you will see Jeanie in 
heaven some day." 

The little girl had now caught her father's hand, and, looking up 
again into his face, she asked : 

"Father, will you be there, too?" 

That staggered him, and the drunkard found no rest until he knelt 
in penitence before God and forsook his sin. 

Both he and his wife, as well as his family, are serving God to-day. — 
Selected by Gospel Herald. 

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD BOY. 

"They all put brandy in them !" said one. 

"They all don't. My mother has never put a drop of brandy in her 
mince pie since the day Bob said he could taste the brandy and it 
tasted good. Mother said then it was wrong, and she would never be 
guilty of it again ; and if mother says a thing is wrong, you may be sure 
it is wrong, for what mother knows, she knows." 



462 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"How about the mince pies? Are you sure she knows how to make 
pies good?" And a laugh went up from a group of girls gathered 
around the register of the recitation room, eating their lunch. But some 
of them winced a little when back were tossed these words: "If she 
doesn't, she knows how to make a boy good, and isn't a boy worth more 
than a mince pie?" — Selected. 

CHRISTIAN (?) CIVILIZATION, MISSIONARIES AND RUM. 

When poor, old, worn-out David Livingston died upon his knees in 
a lonely hut in Central Africa, praying, "Oh, let Thy kingdom come !" 
we thought he had opened the great Dark Continent to the onward march 
of Christian civilization and the light of God's truth. Missionary 
societies and conventions caught the inspiration, large contributions 
began to flow in, and scores of devoted missionaries volunteered, and the 
procession began to move. Watch it; one missionary and 70,000 gallons 
of rum, rum and missionaries ; and thus we enter the Dark Continent. 
Watch again. One convert to Christ, a hundred drunkards. The mis- 
sionary's heart grows sick and cries out, "For the love of Christ, stop 
the rum !" The climate does its exhaustive work, and one by one the 
brave workers sink beneath the burning sun or return home broken down 
in health; hearts at home are discouraged, and the next ship goes only 
with rum — without missionaries. Some years ago 200 Africans, mad- 
dened and crazed by liquor, sent from Boston, slaughtered one another 
in a single day. At another time fifty were killed in a fight caused by a 
single gallon of rum. Judas sold his Lord for $17.00, but Christian 
America sends fifty heathen souls to perdition for 90 cents. — Welcome 
News. 

THE BRANDY PEACH. 

"Ain't it splendid !" I heard a little boy exclaim, as he took a huge 
bite from the brandy peach his playmate had offered. 

"What makes it so good, Lewis?" 

"You little goose, don't you know? Why, it's the brandy, of course/' 
was his companion's reply. 

"Then brandy must be very good if it makes peaches taste so nice," 
said Franky, smacking his lips. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 463 

"I rather think it is — it's delicious !" answered Lewis. "I coax 
mother to give me a spoonful every time she opens a jar. Father don't 
like for her to do it, though. He says I might grow up to be a drunkard ; 
but mother says there is no danger, and I say so, too; for I do think it 
is awful mean for a man to get drunk and go staggering about the streets 
and rolling in the gutter. No, indeed; I'll never, never be a drunkard!" 

Years passed, and I was one day strolling through the still, shadowy 
groves of Glenwood cemetery, when a funeral procession filed slowly in. 

The coffin was very rich and costly, and as a sunbeam, the farewell 
of the departing day, flashed across the silver plates on the lid, I read : 
"Lewis Abbott. Aged 18." 

When the coffin was lowered, the mother, who had been strangely 
calm, suddenly sprang away from the arm on which she had been leaning, 
threw herself on her knees beside the grave, with her hands clasped 
and her tearless eyes gazing wildly down into the dark receptacle. 

"O, my precious boy! Lost forever! Sent to perdition by your 
mother's hands !" As this despairing cry burst from her lips, she threw 
her arms upward, and with a deep groan of mortal anguish, fell back- 
ward, deathlike and inanimate. She was removed by her friends to the 
house of the officer in charge of the cemetery, and I, shocked and startled 
beyond measure, left the place with that terrible cry of self-reproach 
ringing in my ears. 

As I passed out I met a friend, to whom I related what had tran- 
spired, mentioning the name of the youth. 

"I heard of his death this morning. Poor Lewis ! It is a brief but 
sad history, and as I have known the family for years. I can explain the 
scene you have witnessed. 

"Mrs. Abbott was justly famed for her delicious brandy peaches, 
and allowed her children to eat of them freely. Lewis, the only son, 
seemed to have a special fondness for them, carrying one to school 
almost every day, as a part of his lunch. After a time he began to beg 
for the brandy in which they were preserved, and the indulgent mother 
often gave him a spoonful. At last it began to disappear very rapidly 
and strangely, and Lewis was caught one day drinking from the jar. 
Her jars were locked away safely, but it was too late. The infatuated 
boy spent his pocket money for brandy; and when that was withheld, 
sold his skates, then his watch, then his books ; his medal, which he 
prized so highly, and even articles of clothing, were all sacrificed to 



464 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

the fatal appetite. Now the star of his young life has gone out in ever- 
lasting darkness. His last words were full of the most fearful import: 
'Those infernal brandy peaches, mother — they gave me the first start on 
the downward road. Remember that, mother !" — Christian Guide. 

"AM I TO BLAME?" 

"Am I to blame, mother?" asked a young lad, who had joined a 
temperance society. His father and mother appeared to be displeased 
with him. After a silence, the boy broke forth, "Sister Mary has a 
drunken husband, who abuses her every day; Sister Susan's husband 
drank, and has gone off and left her, and you are obliged to take her 
home and take care of her children. Brother James comes home every 
night drunk; and because I have joined the cold water army, and you 
are likely to have one sober person in the family, you are scolding me, 
Am I to blame?" 

The mother, overcome by the argument of her child, replied, "You 
are right, my boy. May God bless you, and help you to keep your good 
resolution." — Selected by Church Advocate. 

A CORRECT ANSWER. 

A liquor dealer in the town of Ayr, Scotland, had a particular brand 
of whiskey which he wished to advertise. One day he offered a prize for 
the best answer to the question: "Why does this particular brand of 
whiskey resemble a certain bridge across the water of the Ayr?" 

The judges examined the answers and announced the successful 
competitor. He proved to be a poor boy whose father was a drunkard, 
and his answer was : "Because it leads to the poorhouse, the lunatic 
asylum, and the cemetery." The liquor dealer looked glum when he 
paid that prize, and he won't be apt to offer any more conundrums to 
advertise his whiskey. — Selected. 

REMORSE AND RETRIBUTION. 

In an account of the work of the Woman's Temperance Union of 

New York, Helen E. Brown communicated to the Witness the following: 

"A thrilling incident was related in connection with a drinking 



STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 465 

saloon which had been visited. The place is one of 'great respectability/ 
frequented by the better class. About a month before, one of the cus- 
tomers had the 'misfortune' to overstep the bounds of moderate drinking 
and decorum, and was forcibly ejected from the premises by the pro- 
prietor. It was feared from the first that the young man was mortally 
injured, and so great was the terror of the rumseller, in view of the 
consequences to himself in case death should ensue, that he was com- 
pletely prostrated. His wife tried in vain to comfort him, and wished 
to call a physician, but the man refused all consolation and advice, say- 
ing: 'Can a doctor cure a broken heart?' 

"The victim of his cruelty died, and when the long train of funeral 
carriages passed the house, fingers were pointed from them, like mute 
sign-boards, indicating: 'There, there's the house! There, there's the 
murderer!' The miserable man, who had risen from his bed to look 
at the procession, saw the fingers ! Each one was like an arrow of 
remorse to his soul, which curdled the blood in his veins, and sent him 
reeling back to his pillow. 

''Shortly after, the officers of justice entered for his arrest. His 
wife protested: 'He is ill; why disturb him?' 'Good woman,' they re- 
plied, 'cease your excuses ; he cannot evade the law.' They thought he 
was feigning sickness, and proceeded to their work, but as they lifted 
him from his bed, he fell back, groaned and died ! 

"As a sequel to this terrible fact, illustrating even more forcibly the 
soul-destroying effects of this unholy traffic, the wife and the daughter 
of this man continued the business on the same corner, their consciences 
being evidently much less sensitive than that of the husband and father." 
— Selected by Herald of Light. 

THE CLOSING SCENE. 

The police courts abound in strange revelations ; for often there the 
curtain falls upon the closing scene in some eventful drama which began 
with mirth, and wine, and pleasure, but which ends in anguish, darkness 
and despair. 

A writer gives the following sketch of such a scene : 

"Johnson, the officer says you were drunk, and that you haven't 
drawn a sober breath for a week. How is that, Johnson?" 

"Yer honor," said Johnson, as he dropped one arm over the rail, 



466 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and leaned back heavily on the policeman who supported him by the 
shoulder, "yer honor, it's true; I've been drunk for a week, as you say, 
an' I haven't got a word to say to defend myself. I've been in this 'ere 
court, I guess, a hundred times before, an' every time I've asked your 
honor to let me off light. But this time I don't have no fear. You can 
send me up for ten days or ten years ; it's all one now." 

As he spoke he brushed away a tear with his hat, and when he 
paused he coughed a dry, racking cough, and drew his tattered coat 
closer about his throat. 

"When I went up before," he continued, "I always counted the days 
an' the hours till I'd come off. This time I'll count the blocks to the 
Potter's field. I'm most gone, Judge." 

He paused again, and looked down upon his almost shoeless feet. 

"When I was a little country boy, my mother used to say to me: 
'Charlie, if you want to be a man, never touch liquor ;' an' I'd answer : 
'No, mother, I never will.' If I'd kept that promise, you an' me wouldn't 
have been so well acquainted. If I could only be a boy again for half 
a day; if I could go into the school-house just once more and see the 
boys and girls as I used to see them in the old days, I could lie right 
down here and die happy. But it's too late. Send me up, Judge. Make 
it ten days or make it for life. It don't make no difference. One way 
would be as short as the other. All I ask now is to die alone. I've 
been in crowded tenements for years. If I can be alone for a little while 
before I go, I'll die contented." — The Common People. 

AN INDIAN TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 

The morning was perfect. 

The blue of the sky was intensely blue, and the grass-blades had a 
new dress, for a frost had settled upon mother earth during the night. 
A walk of four or five miles took me from the station through the white 
settlement. Two miles farther through the woods lay the little Indian 
village with the log church. 

The leaves were falling from the maples. Occasionally a squirrel 
gave vent to his joy. 

But sounds were few. It was a time for meditation. The glory of 
God seemed to fill the forests. The soul was stirred with a new rever- 
ence and love. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 467 

While I was quietly walking, and meditating upon the message to 
which the patient Indians were to listen, this exquisite solitude was ab- 
ruptly ended. 

The intruder proved to be a white settler returning from the Indian 
village. 

By his attitude it appeared that some startling news was in store. 
Anxious to relate it, he introduced his remarks with, "Say, Elder, don't 
think your preaching's reached quite all the Indians yit." 

Then he recited the sad tragedy of "Big Jack's" death. 

Big Jack was known as a jolly good fellow, tall and strong. He 
had earned "a stake" loading vessels. 

It was the sad story of many an Indian, and white man, too, in that 
north country. Some one had treated him, and then, they said, "he had 
gone crazy, and would not stop." He lost his money, of course ; no one 
knew how ; and at a late hour they started him on the Chicago & North- 
western Railroad for home. The next morning his mangled remains 
were found. 

My thoughts quickly changed. What could I say to those people to 
help them? The fact was that the Indians had been ashamed to send for 
me, and had buried Jack among the hemlocks and maples. 

That day I talked to them, not upon the subject which I had pre- 
pared, but upon intemperance, and pressing home the truth that the 
Master was able to keep them if they would trust him. 

They listened attentively; some of them wept. The older women, 
who always insisted on sitting upon the floor instead of in the pews, 
swayed and moaned. 

The meeting was followed by the usual hand-shaking, and the fre- 
quent "That's so," "Good talk for Indian," "Me need that so," "Poor 
Jack!" etc., gave fair promise that good results would come. 

Two weeks passed ; the scattered field of eight places was traversed ; 
and now the walk once more to the Indian village, this time in the midst 
of a cold November storm. 

My thoughts went back to the bitterness and sorrow attending the 
previous meeting. 

The same respectful audience of men, women, and children were 
assembled. As I walked up the steps into the pulpit, something strange 
greeted my eye. It was a temperance pledge pinned to the wall. 

While I read it there was a deathlike silence. After reading it some 



468 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

moments were spent, still facing the wall, in the endeavor to regain my 
usual gravity. 

The pledge was as follows : 

"We know whisky bad. Jack dead because of whisky. We 'gree 
not touch whisky. Trust God keep us." 

Then followed a long list of the names of men, women, and children. 

Some said, "Me 'gree not touch whisky for six months"; another 
could hold out only three months ; still another one month ; some could 
keep the pledge as long "as mother or wife not want to touch," but all 
pledges were given in good faith and with perfect sincerity. — Christian 
Endeavor World. 

A MOTHER'S STRUGGLE. 

A father, mother and five children live in a humble home in Phila- 
delphia; the youngest child is a mere baby of two years; the father 
awakens in the morning to find his wife has slipped away, and, searching, 
finds her in the bath-room dead from self-asphyxiation. She leaves this 
note for him : 

"Tony: You will be surprised to hear I have gone away — where, I 
do not know. But before the day is over you will find out why. Be 
good to the baby. I know you will never forgive me for what I have 
done. God help and have mercy on me. Good-bye to all. May God 
be good to you all. From a wretched and bad wife and mother. My 
last good-night. Mother." 

Within a week this mother had attempted her life twice, but her 
husband's love and watchfulness had prevented her from succeeding 
before. 

"Why," you ask, "did she persist?" It is not a strange story, be 
assured. She was a victim of the liquor habit. She had been accus- 
tomed to beer from childhood. Gradually the craving had grown upon 
her until it was a mighty passion that surged through her veins and 
would not be stilled. More fiery liquors were craved and drunk. A 
few months ago she had delirium tremens. Then she realized her danger 
and fought desperately for relief; she summoned all her powers of mind 
to the task; she struggled bravely against the thirst for three weeks, 
but then gave up in real despair; the sequel was another attack of tre- 
mens ; then she went under treatment, but no good came of it ; then she 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 469 

ran the gamut of patent medicines and recommended remedies. But 
her attacks of delirium were frequent and more than once she lay at 
death's door. Her husband mercifully and tenderly nursed her through 
these crises and loved her royally and faithfully. But the end was 
reached, as the story above records it. — Selected. 

PLAGUE-SPOTS. 

In sentencing a murderer to death, the judge made use of the fol- 
lowing language: "Nor can the place be forgotten in which occurred 
the shedding of blood. It was one of the thousand ante-chambers of 
perdition which mar, like plague-spots, the fair face of our state. You 
do not need to be told that I mean a tippling-shop — the meeting place 
of Satan's minions, and the foul cesspool which, by spontaneous genera- 
tion, breeds and matures all that is loathsome and disgusting in pro- 
fanity and babbling and vulgarity and Sabbath breaking. I would not 
be the owner of a groggery for the price of this globe converted into 
precious ore. For the pitiful sum of a dime the liquor seller made the 
deceased a fool and the trembling culprit a demon. How paltry a sum 
for two human lives ! This traffic is tolerated by the law, and therefore 
the vender has committed an offense not recognized by earthly tribunals ; 
but in the sight of Him who is unerring in wisdom, he who deliberately 
furnishes the intoxicating draft which inflames man into anger and 
violence and bloodshed is 'particeps criminis' in the moral turpitude of 
the deed. Is it not high time that the sinks of vice and crime should 
be held rigidly accountable to the laws of the land, and placed under 
the ban of all enlightened and virtuous public opinion?" — The Vanguard. 

SAVED BY REVERENCE FOR THE BIBLE. 

One evening a liquor saloon in New York City was crowded. There 
was a "Bible raffle." As the men went to the counter one by one to 
shake the dice box, there was laughter and blasphemy. At last one 
who lay stupidly drunk was' roused and bidden to take a hand. He 
staggered to the counter and threw the highest number. The boisterous 
crowd gathered round him with jests and questions. He grew sober in 
a moment, and not noticing their jokes, took the Holy Book in his hands 
reverently and said to the bar-keeper, "Please wrap this in the cleanest 



470 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

piece of paper you have, but don't let it have the smell of whisky about 
it." Turning to the amazed group, he said, "Good evening, gentlemen. 
It's the last time we'll meet here. I'm going home to make one of the 
best wives in the world, the happiest woman in New York," and taking 
the Bible he passed out, jeered by some, but cheered by others. He 
walked rapidly to his squalid home. He mounted the rickety stairs, 
entered the room, walked to where his wife sat, and laid the parcel on 
her lap. She started and, looking up with a faint semblance of the old, 
almost forgotten smile, said, "You are early to-night, John." She saw a 
change had come over him, and quickly opened the package. Seeing 
the book, she burst into tears, and said, "John, I've been thinking of you 
all day, and wondering if you would ever be your own old self again. 
While I was thinking, little Agnes came up, and putting her arms around 
my neck, said, 'Mamma, why doesn't papa have prayers and the Bible 
as grandpa does when we go to see him ?' I could not answer her, John, 
but now you can." "Yes, I'll answer her, wife ; get me a pen and some 
ink." Then he opened the fly-leaf and wrote : "To my faithful wife, 
whom I shall never again voluntarily cause a sorrow or blush of shame, 
John." The husband kept his word. His reverence for the Book of 
God led to reverence for the Word of God and saved him. — Selected by 
King's Highway. 

HOW LIQUOR AFFECTS THE HEART. 

The late Dr. Sir Benjamin W. Richardson, one of the greatest 
physicians England ever produced, once heard a man praising wine and 
beer, and said he could not get along without it, when Dr. Richardson, 
by a simple experiment, showed him one evil of liquor drinking. Dr. 
Richardson said to him : 

"Will you be good enough to feel my pulse as I stand here?" 

"He did so. I said, 'Count it carefully; what does it say?' 

" 'Your pulse it 74,' said he. 

"I then sat down in a chair and asked him to count it again. He 
did so, and said, 'Your pulse has gone down to 70.' 

"I then lay down on the lounge, and said : 

"'Will you count it again?' 

"He did so, and replied, 'Why, it is only 64; what an extraordinary 
thing!' 

"I then said, when you lie down at night, that is the way nature 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 471 

gives your heart rest. You know nothing about it, but that beating 
organ is resting to that extent ; and if you reckon it up, it is a great dea! 
of rest, because in lying down, the heart is doing ten strokes less a 
minute. Multiply that by 60, and it is 600; multiply it by eight hours, 
and within a fraction it is 5,000 strokes different; and as the heart is 
throwing 60 ounces of blood at every stroke, it makes a difference of 
30,000 ounces of lifting during the night.' 

"When I lie down at night without any alcohol, that is the rest my 
heart gets. But when you take your wine or grog, you do not allow 
that rest, for the influence of alcohol is to increase the number of strokes, 
and instead of getting this rest, you put on something like 15,000 extra 
strokes, and the result is, you rise up tired and very unfit for the next 
day's work." — Tract. 

HOGS WORTH MORE THAN MEN! 

Several years ago, when Sam Jones lectured in Sigourney, Iowa, he 
gave a deserved roasting to those who signed saloon petitions. This 
report is from a Sigourney paper : 

"'This nice little Iowa town, with a farming region around it, makes 
one of the garden spots of the world; but with all your blessings you 
can't get along without three saloons to debauch your village and ruin 
your boys, because you need the money. 

"Here Mr. Jones inquired of the surprised audience, 'How much is 
the license here?' Some one answered, '$300 each to the town.' 'Nine 
hundred dollars altogether/ resumed Jones. 'What is your population?' 
Answer, '2,000.' The speaker then did a little lightning calculation, and 
resumed : 

"'The liquor dealer walked up to you and said, 'If you will let us 
damn this town, we will give you forty cents apiece. Say, what would 
a 200-pound hog bring?' 

"Answer, '$12.' 'So,' resumed Jones, 'hogs $12 apiece and folks 
forty cents a head. Say, brother, don't you wish you were a hog? You 
and your whole family wouldn't bring enough in this town to buy a 
suckling pig. This is a little lower down than I have ever found them. 
For the pitiful sum of forty cents apiece you turn over your boys to be 

debauched, the hearts of mothers to be crushed, and the town ruined all 

for forty cents. That is cheap ; but I expect that is all you are worth, eh? 



472 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

" 'I want to drop this out. There is not a man of you that signed 
t1"it petition to bring saloons to this town, or county, but deserves that 
every boy you have in your home shall fill a drunkard's grave, and your 
daughters live in the embrace of drunken husbands. What did you sign 
it for? If you did not want your boys to drink, or your daughters to 
marry a drunkard, what did you do it for? Stand up and talk back. 
You surely did not sign, hoping your boy would not drink, but that 
your neighbor's would. Why don't you say, 'To tell you the God 
Almighty truth, I did it for the forty cents.' If the devil don't get you 
for it, it is just because he don't want you, and every man that will sign 
that petition — the devil will get the last man of you — but thank God, he 
won't get much. If you fellows that signed that petition don't feel like a 
hog, you don't feel natural, that's all.' " — Tract. 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN'S EXPERIENCE. 

"At first my admission into the printing house (Palmer's, Bartholo- 
mew Close, London), I took to working at press, imagining I felt the 
want of the bodily exercise I had been used to in America, where press 
work is mixed with the composing. I drank only water; the other men, 
nearly fifty in number, were great drinkers of beer. On one occasion I 
carried up and down stairs a large form of types in each hand, while 
others carried but one form in both hands. They wondered at this and 
several instances, that the Water American, as they called me, was 
stronger than themselves who drank beer. We had an alehouse boy, 
who attended always in the house to supply the workmen. My com- 
panion at the press drank every day a pint before breakfast, a pint at 
breakfast with his bread and cheese, a pint between breakfast and din- 
ner, a pint at dinner, a pint in the afternoon about six o'clock, and 
another when he had done his day's work. I thought it a detestable 
custom ; but it was necessary, he supposed, to drink strong beer, that he 
might be strong to labor. I endeavored to convince him that the bodily 
strength afforded by beer could only be in proportion to the grain of 
flour of the barley dissolved in the water of which it was made; that 
there was more flour in a pennyworth of bread ; and, therefore, that if 
he would eat that with a pint of water, it would give him more strength 
than a quart of beer. He drank on, however, and had four or five 
shillings to pay out of his wages every Saturday night for that vile 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 473 

liquor; an expense I was free from. And thus these poor devils keep 
themselves under." — From his Autobiography. 

REPORT OF A GOVERNMENT INVESTIGATION. 

The United* States Commissioner of Labor maae an investigation 
into the question as to what extent the fact of being a drinking man 
bars a man from obtaining employment. 

Circulars of inquiry were sent to 7,000 employing concerns, all of 
which are representative in their lines of business. There were 6,976 
replies received. Of these, 5,363 state they take the drink habit into 
consideration in employing new men. The reason given by most is that 
it is simply a business precaution. The employer is liable for damages 
done by accident in his establishment, and it is only prudent to employ 
men with clear heads. 

The reason is a good one, and should be pondered by every work- 
ingman. To have a reputation as a sober man is distinctly in a man's 
favor in obtaining work, and in these days of intense competition, every 
man who desires to prosper will see the necessity, as a bit of business 
prudence, for avoiding the drink habit. — Tract. 

LARGEST BUSINESS MEN DON'T DRINK. 

Mr. Edward Bok, the editor of the Ladies' Home Journal, made an 
investigation as to the proportion of the leading business men of the 
nation who are addicted to the use of liquors. Twenty-eight of the 
largest business men of the country were taken for the purpose of the 
investigation, and the results show that twenty-two out of the twenty- 
eight, or more than five-sevenths, have never used alcoholic liquors in 
any way, shape or form. Mr. Bok says: 

"As I looked around, and came to know more of people and things, 
I found the always unanswerable argument in favor of a young man's 
abstinence ; that is, that the most successful men in America to-day are 
those who never lift a wine-glass to their lips. Becoming interested in 
this fact, I had the curiosity to inquire personally into it; I found that 
of twenty-eight of the leading business men in the country, whose names 
I selected at random, twenty-two never touched a drop of wine. I made 
up my mind that there was some reason for this. If liquor brought safe 



474 STORIES OF HELIOS COMMERCE 

pleasures, why did these men abstain' from it? If, as some say, it is a 
stimulant to the busy man, why do not these men, directing the largest 
business interests in this country, resort to it? And when I saw that 
these were men whose opinions in great business matters were accepted 
by the leading concerns of the world, I concluded that their judgment 
in the use of liquor would satisfy me. If their judgment in business 
matters could command the respect and attention of the leaders of trade 
on both sides of the sea, their decision as to the use of liquor was not 
apt to be wrong." — Tract. 

DISCHARGED FOR ENTERING A STORE. 

A business man tells me that he saw one of his employees come 
out of a certain store, and when he reached his office he promptly dis- 
charged him. Have you business men any doubt what the store was? 
It was probably a book store, and he feared his clerk was becoming too 
intelligent; or it was a restaurant, and he feared the young man was 
getting too much to eat ; or it was a furnishing store, and he was about 
to wear clothes too good for him. If we were half-witted, we might miss 
the kind of store out from which he came. There is one kind of store 
which you will not allow your trusted employee to frequent, and that 
is the liquor store, the saloon. 

A railroad company was much disturbed about the habits of its 
employees. It held no brief for their morals, and had no foolish 
notions about its right to restrict their personal liberty, but it 
felt that certain habits made them inefficient, that they were not 
likely to be reliable if they went to certain places. The company did 
not say that they might go a limited number of times each day, with 
that beautiful spirit of true temperance which some men urge, did not 
trust the men who kept these stores to watch that these men kept truly 
temperate. That would have been a sweet thing to say and also idiotic. 
It said to them : "You enter those places, or use their products, and you 
will be summarily dismissed from the service." Now, it is significant 
that the forbidden places w r ere not book stores, nor grocery stores, nor 
restaurants, nor library buildings, but saloons, and any places where 
liquor is sold. You may claim the right to be a user of liquor yourself, 
but you will not willingly ride in a train behind an engine whose cab 
is occupied by a man, to whom the salot>n is an institution of common 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 475 

personal experience. You may be willing to live next a grocery store, 
but you neither live nor raise your children any nearer a saloon than 
you have to be.— Rev. C. B. McAfee, D. D. 

A BANK'S TEMPERANCE RULE. 

A leading bank of Cleveland, Ohio, has adopted a very stringent 
rule against the use of intoxicants by its employees. When a man or 
boy enters the service of this institution, he is required to sign an agree- 
ment that he will not enter any place where intoxicating liquors are 
sold. Two who had signed the pledge were dismissed because they took 
a couple of young women into a liquor-selling restaurant after the 
theatre. 

"It may seem a hardship," said an official of the bank, in explanation 
of their action, "to prevent a young man from entering a hotel or restau- 
rant to which he might go with the best of motives, but with this rule 
agreed to on the part of the employees and enforced on the part of the 
bank, we feel sure that an employee is not going to steal the bank's 
money for the purpose of spending it in improper places, nor are the 
employees likely to form the acquaintance of short card gamblers or 
race track touts in the dairy lunch rooms. We are seriously contemplat- 
ing the extension of the order, so that it shall apply to any place where 
stocks or produce is dealt in on a margin." — Tract. 

A PHYSICIAN'S BLUNDER. 

Schoharie County, New York, has another dark page in its history, 
a shocking murder — a murder that was directly the result of the liquor 
traffic. The connection is perfectly* clear. 

The murderer is the son of one of the most respected families in the 
county. His father is a leading Methodist and a well-known prohi- 
bitionist. The young man acquired the taste for intoxicating liquors 
through a prescription given by a physician when he was a mere boy. 
Some evil influence seemed to make it impossible for him to shake off the 
habit. In spite of everything that could be done by his friends, and his 
own apparently earnest efforts, he suffered from periodical lapses, in 
which he would become grossly intoxicated. On the evening of Monday, 
April 30, 1906, in an intoxicated condition, he attempted to enter the 



476 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

house of some people in the village and was refused admission. A 
quarrel ensued and he shot the woman who was refusing to let him in, 
killing her almost instantly. 

Every item of the case marks it distinctly as a whiskey tragedy. 
It began with the criminal blunder of a physician. It was developed by 
the presence of the perpetual temptation in the licensed saloons of this 
village. It culminated in an act of drunken fury inspired by drink which 
had been sold the poor fellow by men who perfectly well knew that they 
had no legal right to sell it, in view of his known intemperate habits. 

The terrible tragedy shows how utterly impossible it is for even the 
most careful parents to guard their homes from an evil that is legalized 
by the state and ignored by the so-called "better elements" of society. — 
The Defender. 

SENSIBLE WORDS FROM A SENIOR. 

I heard two collegians discussing the subject of wines, apropos to a 
collegiate dinner. 

"Of course," said one, with a consequential touch of self-compla- 
cency, "if a fellow hasn't wit enough to know when to stop, he'd better 
be careful at first. Some heads are built weak, you know." 

"Careful in what?" interpolated I. 

"Why, drinking, of course," said the speaker. "A fellow has to 
take his seasoning sooner or later; some can stand it, some cannot, at 
least for a while." 

He was a freshman. His friend, a bearded senior, the only son of 
a rich man, slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "When I was 
your age, old fellow, my father said to me, Tf I had my life to live over, 
I would never take a glass of wine nor smoke a cigar.' I answered, Tt 
would be foolish not to profit by what such a sensible man says.' I 
have never tasted wine nor touched tobacco, and I am glad of it — gladder 
every day I live. I might have been built with a strong head, and then 
again I might not." 

"What do you say when you are offered a treat?" 

"I say, 'No, thank you ; I never take it.' Generally that settles the 
matter quietly." 

"And if they poke fun at you ?" * ; 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 477 

* z 

"I let them poke, and stand by to be ready to put them to bed when 
their heads give out." 

There are — for the comfort of others, let it be said — many strong 
enough to maintain this stand ; sensible enough to see that the risks are 
not worth taking. — Watchman. 

MORAL SUASION OR PROHIBITION, WHICH SHALL IT BE? 

A young man once advised me to advocate pure moral suasion. 
At a meeting where this young man was present, I said to the audience, 
pointing to him, "Some say we ought to advocate moral suasion ex- 
clusively. Now, I will give you a fact. Thirteen miles from this place 
there lived a woman who was a good wife, a good mother, a good 
woman." I then related her story as she told it : 

" 'My husband is a drunkard ; I have worked, and hoped, and prayed, 
but I almost gave up in despair. He went away and was gone ten days. 
He came back ill with the small-pox. Two of the children took it, and 
both of them died. I nursed my husband through his long sickness — 
watched over him night and day, feeling that he could not drink again, 
nor ever again abuse me. I thought he would remember all this terrible 
experience. Mr. Leonard kept a liquor-shop about three doors from my 
house, and soon after my husband was well enough to get out, Mr. 
Leonard invited him in and gave him some drink. He was then worse 
than ever. He now beats me and bruises me. ... I went into Mr. 
Leonard's shop one day, nerved almost to madness, and said, " ' "Mr. 
Leonard, I wish you would not sell my husband any more drink." 

" 'Get out of this,' said he, 'away with you. This is no place for 
a woman ; clear out." 

" 'But I don't want you to sell him any more drink/ 

"'Get out, will you? If you wasn't a woman, I would knock 
you into the middle of the street." 

" 'Mr. Leonard, please don't sell my husband any more drink/ 

" 'Mind your own business, I say/ 

" 'But my husband's business is mine/ I pleaded. 

'"Get out! If you don't, I will put you out/ 

" T ran out and the man was very angry. Three days after a neigh- 
bor came in and said, "Mrs. Tuttle, your Ned's just been sent out of 
Leonard's shop so drunk that he can hardly stand !" 



478 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

" What! my child, who is only ten years old?' "Yes." 

" 'The child was picked up in the street and brought home, and it 
was four days before he got out again. I then went into Leonard's 
shop and said, "You gave my boy, Ned, drink." 

" 'Get out of this, I tell you,' said the man. 

" T said, "I don't want you to give my boy drink any more. You 
have ruined my husband ; for God's sake, spare my child !" and I went 
down upon my knees and tears ran down my cheeks. He then took me 
by the shoulders and kicked me out of doors.' " 

Then, said I, pointing directly to my friend, "Young man, you talk 
of moral suasion? Suppose that woman were your mother, what would 
you do to the man who kicked her?" He jumped right off his seat and 
said, "I'd kill him. That's moral suasion, is it? Yes, I'd kill him, just 
as I'd kill a woodchuck that had eaten my beans." 

Now, we do not go as far as that ; we do not believe in killing or 
persecution, but we believe in prevention and prohibition. — John B. 
Gough. 

AND WHISKEY DID IT. 

It was the early hour of a Sabbath night in mid-summer. Peace 
seemed to be claiming our city for her own. Worshippers by hundreds 
had gathered in our various churches to reverently speak in prayer, and 
song, and sermon, the blessed name of our Prince of Peace. The still- 
ness and sweet solemnity of the sacred day dwelt around us ; and we 
were thanking God for the joy of rest and security and calm content. 
Suddenly, as if hell had grown jealous of heaven's temporary reign on 
earth, there rang out five murderous pistol shots, followed by the agoniz- 
ing screams of a dying woman ; and again by the terrified cry of a horror- 
stricken mother who looked aghast upon a scene of blood and death. 
/Vnd what an appalling scene was that upon which that grief-crazed 
mother gazed ! Her daughter and her son lay dead, slain by the hand 
of that daughter's young husband; and just outside the desolated but 
once happy, though humble, home, the murderer lay gasping for breath, 
two ghastly, self-inflicted wounds in his breast. He had sought his own 
life after he had taken the life of his wife and that of her manly young 
brother. It was all over in a moment — all? No, not all, for the aged 
mother's cruel sorrow had only just begun; and the long night of the 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 479 

life of humiliation which must be endured by the now motherless and 
worse than fatherless children had just now entered its dusk. All over? 
No, for the surgeons say that the death which the drunken young man 
wooed for himself may not be won; unhappily for him, professional 
skill and an abnormally robust constitution may restore him to life, 
and — remorse, a remorse which only the hangman's noose can kill. 
Gaping crowds of curious and unfeeling people throng the sidewalks 
and push into the wrecked home and stare at the aged woman who sits 
in her wretched loneliness and weeps over her poor dead children. There 
is a coroner's inquest and a terrible double funeral — and — despair. 

Nine years ago there was a festal scene. It was a marriage evening. 
A pure young girl had been wedded to a handsome and apparently 
honest and promising young mechanic. The mother, younger then, and 
stronger, sat by amid the merriment, and heard with a fond mother's 
pride the cordial words of congratulation, the generous praise which 
friends showered upon the youthful husband and his radiantly happy 
bride. Sacred words had been spoken by the minister who, in God's 
dear name, had made the twain one flesh. Their life together had 
begun ; and the mother of the girl- wife said, "Surely they will be happy 
— surely, surely." 

Just eight years ; but the time was long enough for the serpent to 
enter that Eden and despoil it. It was not many months after this 
scene of brilliant joy and cheery laughter, and happy hope beginnings, 
until this same husband began to drink, a little at first, then more, until 
beastly drunkenness was his pitiable portion. With his own degradation 
there crept into his mind the poison of a hellish suspicion that his wife, 
too, had grown unfaithful. It may not have been a wholly groundless 
suspicion. The world may never know. Certain it is that if she, who 
had pledged her troth to a man so unworthy, was not stalwart in char- 
acter, she must have found it hard to be true to him who was so basely 
untrue to-her. 

The sequel of this awful story was told, in the introduction; and 
whiskey did it. His closest friends declare that, when sober and before 
he became a slave to the saloon, this young man was large-hearted, and 
genial, and honorable, peaceable and manly. He is a double murderer 
now; and before these lines are read, the word "suicide" may be added 
to the record he has written in blood. God pity and save him; and, 



480 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

O, God, pity the living sufferers in his own family and in the family 
of his poor slaughtered wife ! 

Yes, reader, we are quite as willing to end this heart-chilling recital 
as you are anxious to have it ended. It is a true story, though, and it 
occurred right here in Nashville, Sunday, August 22. True, the parties 
to the tragedy were not members of your family nor of ours, not even 
acquaintances; but they belonged to other families nevertheless, and 
they were loved and are lost; and, with drink to aid in arousing the 
slumbering demon that lurks in most of our souls, these things might 
have occurred in any of our households. What, then, is the plain duty 
of the hour? Here it is — join us in it, and let God witness our vow — 
death to the saloon! — Cumberland Presbyterian. 

THE STRUGGLE WITH APPETITE. 

I shall never drink again, but one night in a New England train, 
and very ill, I met a stranger who pitied me and gave me a quick, power- 
ful drug out of a small vial, and 1 my pain was gone in a minute or two, 
but alcohol was licking up my very blood with tongues of flame. 

I should have gotten drunk that night, if I could. I thought of 
everything — of my two years of clean life ; of the meeting I was going 
to, vouched for by my friend and brother, D. L. Moody; of the bright 
little home in New York; of Mary and the boys; I tried to pray, and 
my lips framed oaths. I reached up for God, and He was gone, and the 
fiercest fiend of hell had me by the throat and shouted, "Drink, Drink, 
Drink !" I said, "But Mary— but the boys"; it said, "To hell with Mary 
—come on, to the saloon !" 

It was not yet daylight, Sunday morning, when I stood on the plat- 
form at Pawtucket, Rhode Island, alone. I flew from saloon to saloon, 
they were shut up, so were the drug stores ; and all that day, locked up 
in my room at the hotel, I fought my fight and won it in the evening by 
the grace of God ; but the people of Pawtucket never knew that the man 
who spoke to them that night had been in hell all day. 

What would you take in cash to have that put into your life ? 

That is to be my portion until my dying day ; but if merciful, patient 
time shall cauterize and heal the old, dishonorable wounds, and cover 
them with repulsive but impervious cicatrices, yet because I had those 
wounds I am to be through my whole life considered a moral cliff- 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 481 

dweller, a creature of precipices, where one false step ends all ; and so, 
denied full confidence of my fellow men — the highest grace of life to 
strive for, in this world; and I am told I have a Christian enemy or two 
who wait on tiptoe of expectancy and cheerfully prophesy the sure, near 
coming of my final plunge back into the Dead Sea of drink. 

Several years ago, at another time, after a long lecture tour in the 
west, I telegraphed to my wife in Boston: "I will arrive home tonight 
at eleven." The train was late, and long after midnight I came under 
her window. The light was burning, and I knew that she was waiting 
for me. I let myself in ; there were two flights of stairs, but twenty 
would have been nothing to me, my heart was hauling away, like a great 
balloon. 

She stood in the middle of our room as pale and cold and motionless 
as a woman of snow, and I knew at a glance that the sweet, brave life 
was in torture. "What is it?" I cried, "What is the matter?" and in my 
arms she sobbed out the everlasting tragedy of her wedded life: "Nothing 
— at any rate, nothing ought to be the matter. I do believe in you; I 
knew you would come home ; but I have listened for you so many years, 
that I seem to be just one great ear when you are away beyond your 
time; I seem to have lost all sense but that of hearing when you are 
absent unexplained, and every sound on the street startles me, and 
every step on the stairs is a threat and a pain, and the stillness chokes 
me, and the darkness smothers me. And all the old, unhappy, home 
comings troop through my mind, without omitting one detail, and to- 
night I heard the children sighing in their sleep, and I thought I should 
die when I thought of you having to walk in your weariness, and in this 
midnight through Kneeland street alone." 

She thinks that I will never fall; and would deny today that she 
knows- any fear, but yet, until the undertaker screws her sweet face out 
of my sight forever, that ghastly, unformed, nameless thing will walk 
the chambers of her heart whenever I am unaccounted for. 

By the mercy of God, that has given to you the unshaken and un- 
shakable confidence of her you love, I beseech you to make a fight for the 
women who wait tonight until the saloon spews out their husbands and 
their sons and sends them maudlin, brutish, devilish, vomiting, stinking, 
to their arms. 

And you, happy wives, whose hearts have never wavered nor had 
occasion to waver, and who, when your husbands fail to come on time, 



482 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

can go to bed without a fear and go to sleep with smiles upon your lips, 
and sleep the long night through too peacefully even to dream, by the 
mercy of God, that gives you that, I beseech you, band yourselves to 
help, at least to cheer, the wives, who, their whole lives through, must 
walk the rotten lava-crust of burntout confidence — their very love a 
terror and a pain. 

And you, good, calm, untempted men who never fell, who never 
tasted death for any man and never mean to, I beseech you to cast a vote 
the next time for the sake of the drunkard, and try to make the stations 
on life's highway safe for storm-tossed men to stop at any day or any 
night. — John. G. Woolley. 

CHARLES LAMB TO YOUNG MEN. 

Charles Lamb, one of England's great writers, was a hard drinker. 
Listen to his sad wail : 

"The waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths, could 
I be heard, I could cry out to all those who have set a foot in the perilous 
flood. Could the youth to whom the flavor of his first wine is delicious 
as the opening scenes of life, or the entering upon some newly-discovered 
paradise, look into my desolation, and be made to understand what a 
dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice 
with open eyes and a passive will — to see his destruction and have no 
power to stop it, and yet feel it all the way emanating from himself; to 
see all godliness- emptied out of him, and yet not able to forget a time 
when it was otherwise; to bear about him the piteous spectacle of his 
own ruin; could he see my feverish eye — feverish with the last night's 
drinking and feverishly looking for tonight's repetition of the folly; 
could he but feel the body of death out of which I cry, hourly with 
feebler outcry; to be delivered — it were enough to make him dash the 
sparkling beverage to the earth, in all the pride of its mantling tempta- 
tion." — Tract. 



PART III 

POINTED 
PARAGRAPHS 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 485 

Those who fondle the serpent shall feel its fangs. 

* £ * £ 

Rum is all right in its place, and that is — in hell. 

9 9 9 9 
"A whiskey straight has made many men crooked." 

■S5 ™ -SS •© 

The skeleton in many a closet is a long-necked bottle. 

9 9 9-9 

"We favor shorter hours for overworked bartenders." 

* * * £ 

Whiskey is expensive. It costs a man dollars and sense. 

* * * * 

Strong drink is bad for the health as well as for the pocket. 

£ * * £ 

Grape juice has killed more than grape shot. — C. H. Spurgeon. 

^ 9 9 9 

Intemperance is the great crime of crimes. — Hon. L. M. Morril. 

* £ £ £ 

The cause of drunkenness is drink; the cure is total abstinence. 

* * 9 9 

Drink, the dynamite of modern civilization. — Hon. John D. Long. 

* * * £ 

"The man who 'hits one' usually strikes those most dear to him." 

Drink, the only terrible enemy England has to fear, — Prince Leopold. 

* * * ■* 

Many a man who sets out to kill a giant is tripped up by an old 
barrel hoop. 

* * * * 

"A wry face may be made cheaper than a rye face, and is more 
easily cured." 

* * * £ 

He who would regulate the saloon, should first try to regulate 
Mt. Sinai. 

* * 9 9 

Wine may sometimes move itself aright, but always moves the 
drinker wrong. 



486 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Prohibition strengthens education, religion and law; the saloon 
helps neither. 

* * * * 

The saloon was born of evil, but it exists because good men 
tolerate it. 

9 9 9- . JB 

"From drink, with its sorrow and ruin and sin, 
I surely am safe if I never begin." 

* * * * 

You can't fight the saloon in a whisky party. This is a good time 
to get out of it. 

9 9 9 9 

Many a man would rather lose his boy than lose his vote, or at least 
he acts that way. 

* * * * 

Chicago's drink bill for three years equals the amount of property 
destroyed by the great fire. 

9 ,9 . 9 , 9 

Man is at his best when he shows greatest chivalry in defense of 
the women and children. 

* * 9 9 

I never use it ; I am more afraid of it than of Yankee bullets. — 
General Stonewall Jackson. 

* * 9 9 

"They that be xlrunken are drunken in the night. Let us who are 
of the day be sober." — Paul. 

£ * # £ 
Intoxicating liquor is one great source of all wrong, misery and 
crime. — Gov. Thomas Talbot. 

£ * £ * 
If we had a sober nation, Mr. Statesman, don't you think we could 
make short work of the trusts? 

"Beer is a far more dangerous enemy to Germany than all the 
armies of France." — Von Moltke. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 487 

The saloon gives aid and comfort to the vices of the people, while 
prohibition encourages the virtues. 

* * * * 

"The mission of the Prohibition party is to teach the old parties that 
there is a God in Israel." — Gov. St. John. 

* * * * 

A total abstainer is good. A total abstinence society is better. 
Little is gained without organization. 

* * * * 

The drinker is simply amusing himself with the rattle of his chains 
when he brags of his power of moderation. 

* * * -* 

Men need no stimulant. It is something I am persuaded they can 
get along without. — General Robert E. Lee. 

■^P *&* *^P ^>-* 

And the cocktail's red glare, the bomb bursting in air, gave proof 
that some things must be handled with care. 

* * * * 

The quartette of drink, debt, dirt and doubt, is to many a man 
but another version of the game of follow your leader. 

« * € £ 

It isn't the drop in wages that hurts a man so much as* the drop 
he takes after getting his wages. That's what drops him. 

* * * * 

Alcohol is poison. For a country to legalize the sale of a poison 
for beverage purposes is one way for it to commit suicide. 

* * * * 

License makes it EASY to do wrong and HARD to do right; 
prohibition makes it hard to do wrong and easy to do right. 

* * * * 

More schoolhouses and fewer saloons. That's a pretty good plat- 
form, but ours is better — More schoolhouses and no saloons. 

* * * * 

"Though a member of the 'sterner sex/ we believe it is much more 
becoming to wear the little white ribbon than the big red nose." 



488 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

If "prohibition does not prohibit," then regulation don't regulate, 
restriction don't restrict and execution don't execute. — Andrew Johnson. 

* £ * * 

God sends us nothing but what is naturally wholesome and fit to 
nourish us, but if the devil has the cooking of it, it may destroy us. 

9 9 9 9 

No one knows the wrecking influence of drink like he who has been 
wrecked, and then stranded on the reefs of shame and disgrace. 

* £ £ * 

Does prohibition prohibit? is a minor question to this one: Do I 
give my SANCTION to the sale of strong drink in Lynchburg? 

"^3h "*&* "\i— ^&" 

"Come ye out from among them" applies with great force to clean 
men connected with corrupt, dishonest, whisky-soaked politicians. 

* * * £ 

In the "first" glass that a young chap drinks is found a true story 
of the "last" ! It is all written there even though he cannot read it. 

■8! 5> 9 9 

The pious people who vote to legalize the sale of liquor on Monday 
must expect to sooner or later see it legally sold on Sunday. — Defender. 

9 9 9 9 
You cannot regulate the liquor traffic, and there is no use wasting 
vour energies, time, money and disgusting yourself trying to do so. 

£ * * * 

If those who are searching after a "sure cure for drunkenness" 
would quit drinking while they are looking for it, they would find it. 

* * * 4 

The devil doesn't mind anti-liquor resolutions being carried at 
church conferences, so long as they are not given effect at the ballot-box. 

£ * * £ 

"The man who feels no moral responsibility, who kneels at no 
shrine, who has no religious belief, is pretty poor material for citizenship." 

The man who votes for a license party ought not to object if any 
one of his boys falls in the saloon trap which his own ballot helped 
to set. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 489 

A sober father does not always mean sober sons, but the influence 
for temperate living that a sober father exerts in a household is very 
great. 

■^ ^ ^ * 
No man has a good word for drunkenness. Why, then, should 
Lynchburg continue the policy of making her citizens DRUNK BY 
LAW? 

* * i ^ 

Temperance and labor are the two best physicians of man; labor 
sharpens the appetite, and temperance prevents him from indulging in 
excess. 

* * * * 

The makers and dealers in rum often profit financially through the 
saloon at the expense of the masses. Are you a dealer or one of the 
masses? 

* * * * 

If the ballot box were a gramophone, it would undoubtedly record 
and reproduce some extraordinary feats performed by our religious 
acrobats. 

■3^ ^ ™ -95 

The hand that crushed liberty in the Philippines is just as surely 
crushing it here. If you have any tears, shed them for your own 
stupidity. 

* * * * 

It is easier to give up altogether the taste of intoxicating drink 
than to measure it out to one's self. Have done with it therefore, 
altogether. 

* £ * * 

Fifty or a hundred men united in the cause of temperance can 
certainly do much more good than if they tried to work simply as 
individuals. 

* * * * 

You pay big money to insure your house against the fire fiend. 
Why not put a little money in a cause to insure your son against the 
drink fiend? 



490 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

"What is whiskey bringing ?" inquired a dealer in the vile stuff. 
"Bringing men to the gallows and women and children to want," was 
the truthful reply. 

* * * * 

When the enemies of the saloon shall shun license parties as the 
saloon men shun the prohibition party, we shall soon be able to organize 
victory for our homes. 

9 9 9 9 

Every dollar expended for liquors as a beverage comes out of the 
landlord, grocer, baker, tailor, butcher, and others who pursue an honest 
calling. — H. H. Faxon. 

9 9 9 9 

If prohibition, handicapped as it is by the inter-state commerce law, 
works so admirably well, what would it do, A fortiori, if it had a fair 
chance? — Andrew Johnson. 

* 9 9 9 

It is impossible to become intoxicated without taking one drink. 
No drunkard on earth or in hell would be where he is if he had not 
taken one drink. Let it alone. 

* * * * 

Of all selfish creatures on God's earth, the drunkard is the meanest, 
because his meanness wrecks the happiness of those who love him best 
— his nearest and dearest. 

* 9 9 9 

The nation, the state, the town, the society, or the church which 
does not adopt temperance as one of its cardinal virtues, stands upon 
uncertain ground. — H. H. Faxon. 

•^ ~ ■S! -35 

Statistics show that ten thousand people are killed by whiskey, 
where only one is killed by a mad dog. What of it? Shoot the mad 
dog, and license the sale of the whiskey. 

* * # * 

The liquor fraternity dislikes prohibition because "prohibition breeds 
blind pigs." But just as sure as prohibition goes into effect this same 
liquor fraternity goes right into the breeding business. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 491 

It is necessary for the clean Christian citizen to be separated from 
the saloon not only intellectually, morally, personally, spiritually, finan- 
cially, but also politically. — Andrew Johnson. 

^^ *\S* ^y- ^^ 

The saloon is the only business that does not advertise its results 
or point to its successes. No "finished goods" sign is put up by the 
liquor dealer. Look for that in the potter's field. 

* £ * * 

"We cannot make people moral by law." No, but you can make 
them immoral by licensing immoral institutions by law, and then the 
people will become more immoral as a consequence. 

£ * £ * 

It does not pay to give one man, for $15 a quarter, a license to sell 
liquor, and then spend $5,000 on the trial of another man for buying 
that liquor and committing murder under its influence. 

* * * * 

Every ninth day's wages of the laborers of this country are handed 
over to the liquor dealers, putting about $900,000,000 annually into their 
coffers — or about $13 for every man, woman and child. 

* * * * 

Bottled woe, squabbles, inane grumbling, insane drivel, bruises of 
shame, not glory, are on sale. Redness of eyes is on tap. Poverty is 
purchasable, but one must pay money, health and honor. 

* * * * 

License is a tax. Taxation means representation, permission, pro- 
tection and perpetuity. License money is a bribe and the acceptance of 
it by the United States is a national sin. — Andrew Johnson. 

€ * * * 

A prohibition speaker was interrupted with the question, "If pro- 
hibition comes, what will the farmer do with his corn?" As quick as a 
flash the speaker retorted, "Raise more hogs and less hell." 

* 4t * * 

You shall not press down upon the brow of American homes the 
crown of thorns platted by the hand of the liquor traffic ; you shall not 
crucify man upon a cross of high license. — Andrew Johnson. 



492 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

If, in the future, the temperance reform is to be more fortunate 
than in the past, there must be more general, united, and efficient action 
for its promotion by the pulpit than there has been in the past. 

* £ * * 

Why is it? If prohibition does not prohibit, and it cannot be en- 
forced, as liquor papers claim, that those same papers frantically appeal 
to saloonkeepers and brewers to organize and oppose prohibition? 

9 -S8 •35 9 

I have rented houses for more than thirty years, and can safely say 
that three-fourths of all my losses in rent during that period have been 
due, directly or indirectly, to the use of intoxicating liquors. — H. H. Faxon. 

* 9 9 * 

It is strange with what conscientiousness some temperance men 
refuse to "let" their property to be used for dram selling purposes, while, 
at the same time they vote to license their neighbors' on the same street. 

* 9 9 9 

The Church Temperance Sunday is a good thing, but the country's 
greatest need is a Church Temperance Tuesday. This is the only church 
celebration that has any scare in it for the saloon. — Clinton N. Howard. 

■"tjh* *^H *^P *^P 

If the traffic in ardent spirits is immoral, then of necessity are the 
laws which authorize the traffic immoral. And if the laws are immoral, 
then we must be immoral if we do not protest against them. — Gerrilt 
Smith, 

* * ^ 9 

A Scotch woman once wanted to have the devil buried with his face 
downward, so that the more he scratched the deeper he would go. So 
it should be with the liquor traffic — its face down, and no resurrection 
written on its back. 

4 * * * 

Would all the officers unite in setting the soldiers an example of 
total abstinence from intoxicating drinks, it would be equal to an 
addition of 50,000 men to the armies of the United States. — General 
George B. McClellan. 

* * £ * 

"We hang the murderer, jail the thief and the drunkard, but license 
the manufacturer of murders, the makers of thieves and drunkards, and 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 493 

furnish the raw material from our homes out of which the murderer, 
thief, and drunkard are made." 

* 9 * * 

"A saloonkeeper discharged a clerk for getting drunk. A distiller 
advertised for two teetotalers to run his still. A drunkard is at a dis- 
count with all people. Even the devil wants a more respectable man 
than a drunkard to work for him." 

4 * * * 

Now, it is mad, it is driveling, to talk of regulating the traffic in 
intoxicating beverages. Raise the price to $10,000, and enact that 
nobody but a doctor of divinity shall be allowed to sell, and you will 
have the same old devil. — Horace Greeley. 

* 4t « * 

Drunkenness is not only the cause of crime, it is a crime; and the 
encouragement of drunkenness for the sake of profit on the sale of drink 
is certainly one of the most criminal methods of assassination for money 
ever adopted by the bravoes of any age or country. 

* * * * 

What does it profit a man to send his children to school, accumulate 
property, build big barns, etc., for his children, if his son is to go to ruin 
through the grog-shop, and his daughter to preside over a drunkard's 
hovel? Let us save our children. — Sacred Heart Review. 

* * -^ -Ss 

A saloon in New York is in trouble because, according to the limit 
law, it is too close to a church. Which should move in such a case, the 
church or the saloon? But are not all the saloons in the city too close 
to the churches and too close to the homes of the people? 

* * * * 

A little boy was going past a liquor saloon, the door of which was 
open, with his dog, Sport. The dog not knowing any better, went in, 
but his little master was soon after him, with the following good advice : 
"Come out there, Sport ! Don't be disgracing the family." 

* * * * 

A boy was passing by a saloon, and seeing a drunken man lying in 
the gutter in front of it, he opened the door and said: "Mister, your 
sign's fell down." 

The saloonkeeper chased him half around the square. 



494 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Much ado is made about child labor in factories and night work for 
women, when every sociologist well knows that if the traffic in drink 
were outlawed, and a fair effort made to crush it, in a few years these 
problems would be well solved. — Pittsburg Christian Advocate. 

* £ * £ 

"Tom," said a drunkard to his friend, "where shall I find the poor- 
house? I should like to see it." 

"My dear friend, continue in your present course a short time longer, 
and you will not need to ask the question," was the pointed reply. 

* * * * 

The whiskey business is the poison vine which entwines itself around 
the oaks of our national prosperity, the noxious weed that has sprung 
up in the garden of American industries, the nauseating bilge-water in 
our glorious ship of state, the pest of all ages. — Andrew Johnson. 

£ « * * 

Drink is the parent of crime. It would not be too much to say 
that if all drinking of fermented liquors could be done away, crime of 
every kind would fall to a fourth of its present amount, and the whole 
tone of moral feeling in the lower orders might be indefinitely raised. — 
Buxton. 

•^ ^ -^ ■S' 

Five dollars for whiskey means the loss of three weeks' work. The 

loss of three weeks' work means the loss to your family of a barrel of 

flour, a load of coal, shoes for all, and the contracting of a debt for 

necessaries that require the sacrifice of everything that makes home 

life dear. 

€ * * * 

In the debate in the United States Congress on the question of the 
repeal of the prohibitory law of Alaska, Senator Hansbrough, of North 
Dakota, hit the nail on the head when he said: "A high license law is 
simply a certificate of partnership between the government and the 
saloonkeeper." 

* * * * 

We can never get the saloon out of politics as long as we get our 
politics out of the saloon. Just laws will never be enforced by corrupt 
officials who depend upon criminals to back them up. If you appoint a 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 495 

rascal to be his own hangman, he will probably die a natural death. — 
H. H. Faxon. 

* * * * 

Drive the evil from the school through education, banish it from the 
home through love, rule it from society by decency, dislodge it from 
business by economy; but wilt thou know, oh vain man, that it takes 
ballots with which to drive it from its favorite entrenchment of politics. 
— Andrew Johnson. 

■35 9 9 9 

The rum business is an Ishmealite, its hand is against every man. 
The fact that every man's hand is not against it is one of the marvels 
of our time. By-and-by this will change and the liquor business will 
go to the doom it has long deserved. — President Charles A. Blanchard, 
Wheaton College. 

9 9 9 9 

Drink is the mortal enemy of peace and order, the despoiler of men 
and terror of women, the cloud that shadows the faces of children, the 
demon that has dug more graves and sent more souls unshrived to 
judgment than all the pestilences that have wasted life since God sent 
the plagues of Egypt. 

9 9 9 9 

Should these wages of iniquity be put into the treasury? They are 
the price of blood, and in their aggregate would be inadequate to buy 
fields enough to bury the multitudes who are victims of the dreadful 
traffic for whose profits they sell the people's sanction. — State Board of 
Charities of Pennsylvania. 

* * * * 

High license for the privilege of whiskey-selling means that the 
whiskey-devil will strike higher game. It tends also to make an aris- 
tocracy of evil. The man who can afford to pay a thousand dollars for 
the privilege of helping the devil in his murderous work, ought to have 
a seat in his front parlor. _ ■ 

* 9 9 9 

Why is it? If there is more liquor sold in a town which has voted 
no-license under local option than in a town under license, as liquor men 
claim, why is it that liquor men have organized to defeat local option, 



496 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

and why are they appealing to brewers and wholesalers to assist them 
with money in their light? 

■5! 9 -^ ^ 

When some one tried to rebuke Mark Guy Pearse for preaching 
temperance sermons by reminding him that his duty as pastor consisted 
in taking care of his flock, he replied: "The sheep are all right just 
now; I am looking after the wolf." One way of caring for the sheep 
is to put an end to the wolf. 

* * * * 

It seems very strange that the liquor traffic is spending its millions 
in trying to fight the prohibition movement and at the same time claim 
that prohibition increases the sale of liquor and the amount consumed. 
The American voter is a hard-headed individual with a sense of humor 
and is not to be hoodwinked with such nonsense. 

* * * * 

The saloon is the school of political debauchery, and it is against 
this debasing influence that all true temperance men should direct their 
efforts. The rum-seller in his dive forges the tools by which he bur- 
glariously enters the happy home of the laboring man and steals the 
bread from the mouths of the family. — H. H. Faxon. 

* * * * 

It is high time for some kind of an organization to teach people that 
the free coinage of boys into drunkards, of men into maniacs, of homes 
into hovels, is a bigger question than the coinage of silver. The pro- 
tection to the homes of the nation is a bigger question than the amount 
of tariff that should be assessed on a barrel of axle-grease. 

* * * * 

One drink is what gives the policeman his job, pays the salary of 
the police judge, puts silk on the saloonkeepers's wife, fills the drunkard's 
wife's closet with skeletons and rags, and is the primary ingredient in a 
mixture that paints a cartoon of misery and woe on the drunkard's 
face that is not duplicated anywhere else this side of hell. 

« * * * 

When the citizen brings to the altar of his country and his God an 
offering against the saloon, no portion of the goods must be kept back. 
If he presents the wares of sentiment, thought and abstinence and does 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 497 

not deliver the political portion of the goods at the ballot box, he is in 
danger of becoming a member of the Ananias club. — Andrew Johnson. 

* * * * 

The Bar- Room as a Bank. — You deposit your money — and lose it. 
Your time — and lose it. Your character — and lose it. Your health — 
and lose it. Your strength — and lose it. Your manly independence — 
and lose it. Your home comfort — and lose it. Your wife's happiness — 
and lose it. Your children's happiness — and lose it. Your own soul — 
and lose it. 

* * * * 

Saloon men often boast that they "start things." They do, bungs, 
also brawls, lawsuits, trouble, expense, debt, corruption, misery, ruin, 
shame, and hell. They are strong on the start. They also "finish 
things," happiness, home, reputation, self-respect, reason, love, position, 
hope. Any man who "takes a little" to clear his vision ought to "see 
his own finish." — Wisconsin Issue. 

* * * * 

In Sweden the saloons are closed on pay day, and the banks are 
kept open from early morning until midnight. The government is 
protecting the laboring men against the greedy, ruinous saloon traffic, 
and encouraging them to put their money in the bank. It would be a 
commendatory act if our government would take an equal interest in 
her subjects. — Arkansas Searchlight. 

4 * * * 

The distiller is armed with a ballot; the brewer is armed with a 
ballot; the saloon-keeper is armed with a ballot; the bartender is armed 
with a ballot; the drunkard — the male drunkard — is armed with a 
ballot. The home-maker, the child rearer, is powerless against such 
a foe, without the ballot which determines political conditions in this 
country ; and it is the crime of our day ! 

* * * * 

Every luxury enjoyed by the rum-seller and his family comes out 
of those who patronize his bar; hence, while he takes his comfort 
napping in his easy chair or riding in his top-buggy drawn by a docked 
horse with a gold-mounted harness, his customers make music with 
their wood-saws or trudge along on foot with bare toes sticking out of 
their worn-out boots or shoes. — H. H. Faxon. 



498 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

The late Dr. Guthrie of Scotland on one occasion expressed his 
opinion of whisky in these words : "Whisky is good in its place. There 
is nothing in this world like whisky for preserving a man when he is 
dead, but it is one of the worst things in the world for preserving a 
man when he is living. If you want to keep a dead man, put him in 
whisky, if you want to kill a living man, put whisky in him." 

* * £ * 

The minotaur of Crete had to have a trireme full of fair maidens 
each year ; but the minotaur of America demands a city full of boys 
each year. Are you a father? Have you given your share to keep up 
the supply of this great public institution that is helping to pay your 
taxes and kindly electing public officials for you? Have you contributed 
a boy? If not, some other family had to give more than its share. 

•^55 *^P *^P ^a* 

Did you know how much may be gotten out of one bushel of corn? 
The Free Press tells as follows : "The distiller gets four gallons of 
whiskey, which retails for $16.80. The United States Government gets 
$4.46. The farmer gets fifteen cents. The railroad company gets one 
dollar. The manufacturer gets $4. The consumer gej:s drunk. The 
wife gets hungry. The children get rags. The devil rejoices." Is that 
what God made the corn for? 

* * * * 

The camp of Israel where "much people died" from fiery serpents, 
is but too faithfully repeated in every city and village in America and 
England. There are few families in either land which have not some 
victims of the liquor traffic more or less nearly related to them, and it 
would be little exaggeration to say of this curse of our countries, "There 
was not a house where there was not one dead." Surely common sense 
says, "Do not 'play on the cockatrice' den.' " 

A .&'• v4S •■'.'# 

An Iowa paper says that one of the justices of the peace for Des 
Moines was recently approached by a young man who showed unmis- 
takable evidence of dissipation, with the following pathetic request: 
"Please, Mr. Court, send me to jail for ten days. I want to sober up 
and can't when the saloons constantly tempt me to drink." A warrant 
was issued and served at once; he pleaded guilty, and was sent to jail 
as the only refuge from the mulct law saloon. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 499 

The wisest and strongest man that ever lived is as powerless to 
prevent alcohol from disintegrating the tissues of his brain as the weak- 
est and most stupid. The dry hay in the barn may as well try to 
dictate to the fire that gets into it, as you try to control the ravages of 
alcohol in the gray matter in your head. What you see, and what you 
hear, and what you do, when you put this mysterious drug into your 
mouth, is a question of chemistry, and not of will. 

"^» ~\y* ^^ ^5+ 

"The church preaches, without ceasing and without reserve, that 
the saloon ought to die the death of a pirate, and a murderer taken red- 
handed. But the law gives it license, the leaders do its bidding, candi- 
dates court it, statesmanship ignores it, the voting church sanctions it, 
and the man who insists upon its death is deemed a terror to his church 
and a traitor to his party, or else a motley fool. The case is made out: 
The saloon is a 'wonderful thing.' " — John- G. Woolley. 

* * * * 

Mr. Nelson, the most distinguished of English actuaries, after long 
and careful investigations and comparisons, ascertained by actual experi- 
ence the following astounding facts: Between the ages of fifteen and 
twenty, where ten total abstainers die, eighteen moderate drinkers die. 
Between the ages of twenty and thirty, where ten total abstainers die, 
thirty-one moderate drinkers die. Between the ages of thirty and forty, 
where ten total abstainers die, forty moderate drinkers die. 

* * * £ 

The saloon must have boys or it must shut up shop. Can't you 
furnish it one? It is a great factory, and unless it can get about 
2,000,000 from each generation for raw material, some of these factories 
must close out, and its operatives must be thrown on a cold world, and 
public revenue will dwindle. "Wanted — 2,000,000 boys," is the notice. 
One family out of every five must contribute a boy to keep up the 
supply. Will you help? Which of your boys will it be? 

* * * * 

All our vices deal with us as cats do with mice, — they let us go 
a little way, and then fix their claws and drag their prey back again. 
Drink is one of the greatest oppressors and crudest Pharaohs of them 
all, and comes back after the fugitives, and too often hauls them back. 
The drunkard has a constantly diminishing pleasure in his vice, and a 



5uu STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

constantly increasing craving for it, and drinks at last not because he 
wishes to drink, but because he cannot do without it or bear to be sober. 

* * * * 

If the saloon insists on "personal liberty" we say, Let the saloon go 
to the places where personal liberty is known, e. g. Central Africa. There 
personal liberty is the law of the land. To plead it here is folly. Civil- 
ized men have given up their personal liberty. Personal liberty is all 
well enough until it injures others, then it ought to cease. But when a 
trade is so driven to the wall as to resort to such arguments all reason- 
able men can see through it and soon the public will say: "The saloon 
must go." 

* * * * 

I here now and forever say that no prohibitionist ever by word, deed, 
letter or act consents or agrees to the sale or manufacture of rum in 
any form except for medical or scientific purposes. No prohibitionist 
ever consents to the license of a saloon, neither high license nor low 
license, because we all know that the Englishman's spelling of saloon 
is correct. He told a boy to spell it with a hess, a hay, a hell, two hoes 
and a hen. So all saloons have a hell in them, even in the spelling. — 
C. T. Hogan in Houston Chronicle. 

* * * « 

We are in need of a new Tom Jefferson who shall write another 
Declaration of Independence declaring the United States is and of right 
ought to be free forever from all sinful complicity with the iniquitous 
liquor traffic. If King George III. oppressed the colonies with the iron 
heel of tyranny, King Alcohol is more severely oppressing the nation 
today. As the political bands that united us with the former were cut 
by the keen edge of the revolutionary sword, the cords that bind us to 
the latter should be broken by ballots. — Andrew Johnson. 

* * * £ 

"The friends of the saloonkeepers denounce their opponents for 
not treating the saloon business like any other. The best answer to 
this is that the business is not like any other business, and that the 
actions of the saloonkeepers themselves conclusively prove this to be 
the case. It tends to produce criminality in the population at large, and 
law-breaking among the saloonkeepers themselves. When the liquor 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 501 

men are allowed to do as they wish, they are sure to debauch, not only 
the body social, but the body politic also." — Theodore Roosevelt. 

* * * * 

As we look in the madhouse, says one, monster Drink cries : "One- 
third of these are mine !" As we survey the inmates of our prisons, he 
cries, "Two-thirds of these are mine !" As we look at the paupers sus- 
tained by public charity, he cries, "These are all mine !" And when we 
gaze in horror at the one hundred thousand corpses with which his 
dungeon is annually gorged, he shouts exultingly: "Mine! mine! all 
these are mine!" When we tremblingly ask: "What have you done 
with their souls ?" he sneeringly answers, "You'll know at the Judgment." 

« * * * 

The men who would successfully solve the labor problem, must not 
leave out of the question how to exterminate the saloons of the land. 
If all the trouble connected with the struggle between capital and labor 
could be properly arranged to-night, it would get wrong to-morrow, if 
the present saloon system is allowed to still go on. The horrors of the 
drink traffic have never been fully portrayed. No pencil is black enough 
to pa\nt the picture, and do it full justice. No tongue is eloquent enough 
to tell the sad story of all its dreadful details. The use of alcoholic 
beverages is of all scourges the most wide and withering. 

* * * * 

A Quaker was once advising a drunkard to leave off his habit of 
drinking intoxicating liquors. "Can you tell me how to do it?" said 
the slave of the appetite. "Yes !" answered the Quaker, "it is just as 
easy as to open thy hand, friend." "Convince me of that, and I will 
promise you to do as you tell me," replied the drunkard. "Well, my 
friend, when thou fmdest any vessel of intoxicating liquor in thy hand, 
open the hand that contains it before reaching thy mouth, and thou wilt 
never be drunk again." We are told that the toper was so well pleased 
with this plain advice that he followed it and became a sober man. 

* * « 4 

That was a thrilling moment, when at a political meeting in Iowa, 
after a man had been vaunting the glories to be gained in the state by 
supporting the party that calls for "a saloon on every hill-top," the 
strains of "Home, Sweet Home" stole into the arena of strife, and 
swelled out grandly in the cho/us, "There's No Place Like Home." 



502 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

Strong men buried their faces in their hands, weeping like children, and 
the arguments of Lucifer himself would have been powerless to counter- 
act the sentiment called up from its hiding places in brave men's hearts. 
"The home against the saloon" is a very unequal contest, if only the 
home gets fairly into the field. 

THE DRUNKARD'S PRAYER. 

(The Lord's Prayer Transposed.) 
Our master which art in hell, cursed be thy name. 

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth as it is in hell. 
Rob us this day of our daily bread. 
And help us to make debts, and to jump all our debtors. 
And lead us into evil temptations. 
Deliver us from righteousness : 

For thine is the kingdom of darkness both now and forever. Amen. 
— N. B. Herrell. 

FACE WAS FAMILIAR. 

Judge — Have you been arrested before? 

Prisoner — No, sir. 

Judge — Have you been in this court before? 

Prisoner — No, sir. 

Judge — Are you certain ? 

Prisoner — I am, sir. 

Judge — Your face looks decidedly familiar. Where have I seen it 
before? 

Prisoner — I am the bartender in the saloon across the way, sir. — 
Selected. 

STRANGE, ISN'T IT? 

It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true, that alcohol, 
regularly applied to the thrifty farmer's stomach, will remove the boards 
from the fence, let the cattle into his crops, kill his fruit trees, mortgage 
his farm and sow his field with wild oats and thistles. It will take the 
paint off his buildings, break the glass out of the windows and fill them 
with rags. It will take the gloss from his clothes and the polish from his 
manner, subdue his reason, arouse his passions, bring sorrow and disgrace 
upon his family and topple him into a drunkard's grave. — Selected. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 503 

THE DEVIL'S INVITATION TO THE DRUNKARD. 

Come unto me all ye who are clean and respectful and 1 that have 
plenty of money and a nice home, and I will give you in exchange for it 
a blasted life, a red nose, bleared eyes, a wrecked body, a cursed soul. 
I will break the heart of your wife and send your children to the poor- 
house, or orphanage, or on the street to follow your steps. Take my 
yoke upon you and learn of me, for my yoke is galling, heavy, and hard 
to bear. You can pretend to drown all your trouble in my flowing river 
of liquors, but when you come to yourself, all of them will be on top 
as dead weights to drag you deeper. 

To those who have left the devil's ranks, he would say: Return 
unto me and I will return and enter your heart and I will make you 
harder in sin than you ever were in all your life. — A Voice from Canaan. 

KING ALCOHOL. 

(23rd Psalm Contrasted.) 

King Alcohol is my shepherd, I shall always want. 

He maketh me to lie down in the gutters ; he leadeth me beside 
troubled waters. 

He destroyeth my soul ; he leadeth me into the paths of wickedness 
for his effect's sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of poverty and have the 
delirium tremens, I will cling to evil ; for thou art with me ; thy bite 
and thy sting they torment me. 

Thou preparest an empty table before me in the presence of my 
family. Thou anointest my head with hellishness, my cup of wrath 
runneth over. 

Surely destruction and misery shall follow me all the days of my 
life ; and I will dwell in the house of the devil forever, except I repent. — 
N. B. Herrell. 

HENRY GRADY ON RUM. 

To-night it enters a humble home to strike the roses from a woman's 
cheek, and to-morrow it challenges this republic in the halls of Congress. 

To-day it strikes a crust from the lips of a starving child, and to- 
morrow levies tribute from the government itself. 



504 STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 

There is no cottage humble enough to escape it, no palace strong 
enough to shut it out. 

It defies the law when it cannot coerce suffrage. 

It is flexible to cajole, but merciless in victory. 

It is the mortal enemy of peace and order, the despoiler of men and 
terror of women, the cloud that shadows the face of children, the demon 
that has dug more graves and sent more souls unshrived to judgment 
than all the pestilences that have wasted life since God sent the plagues 
to Egypt, and all the wars since Joshua stood beyond Jericho. 

It comes to ruin, and it shall profit mainly by the ruin of your 
sons and mine. 

It comes to mislead human souls and to crush human hearts under 
its rumbling wheels. 

It comes to bring gray-haired mothers down in shame and sorrow 
to their graves. 

It comes to change the wife's love into despair and her pride into 
shame. 

It comes to still the laughter on the lips of little children. 

It comes to stifle all the music of the home and fill it with silence and 
desolation. 

It comes to ruin your body and mind, to wreck your home, and it 
knows it must measure its prosperity by the swiftness and certainty with 
which it wrecks this world. — Selected by Way of Faith. 



PART IV 

POEMS 



7te&iaxvj(m 




Z 




HRIFTY, O master, the cash drawer bell 

Tinkles the tidings that all is well ; 
That your coffer is filling with good realm's cash, 

That your silver greets gold with a gleesome clash. 
Sweeter to you than a seraph's song, 

Is the music that peals from your cash drawer gong. 
But, O while ye.ring for the gold of price, 

Gathered By sin and in avarice, — 
Ring for the thmgs no gold can buy, 

The wealth.beyond traffic and usury. 
Ring for the lives of good men lost, 

Burnt as a wisp in a holocaust : 
Ring for the life that was due the world, 

Blasted and down to destruction hurled. 
Ring for a father once strong and brave, 

Whose son lies wrapped in a drunkard's grave. 
Ring for the mother with prayers and tears, 

Her hair grown gray with the grief of years. 
Ring for the wife with her sullied name, 

A broken heart and a living shame. 
Ring for the children with tainted blood 

Coursing their veins like a poisoned flood. 
Ring for the home with its hallowed bliss, 
) Turned to remorse and to bitterness. ' 
Ring for the hope that for years has lain 

Dead, like a friend on the battle plain. 
Ring for the hope with its warm, dead face, 

Its arms yet clasped in a last embrace. 
Ring for the joy that might have been, 

Turned to a pain and a Haunting sin. 
Ring for the peace Christ meant should be, 

A foretaste sweet, of eternity. 
Ring_ for the holiness life has missed, 

Sacred and sweet as the eucharist. 
Ring, O bell, for the drunkard's death, 

And the curses that died on his latest breath. 
Ring, bell, for the drunkard dead, 

Whose life was wasted and blasphemed. 
Solemn, my master, the cash drawer "bell, 

Tolls on the air a funeral knelL 
Some one has murdered a man to-day ! 

What will the Judge on the Great Throne say? 
Carved on the stone on Sinai's hill 

Is the law of the Prophet, Thou Shalt Not Kill! 
Who shall plead guilty of this foul crime, 

Before God's bar in the Judgment time ? 



Courtesy Hom&Herald Co. 



-507- 



IT 




THATS ALLV 
AN ANSWER TO THIS POPULAR AD' 



BY OLIVER ALLSTORM 
All? Why, no, there's a 

great deal more: 

There's an arm that's 

weak and a head 

that's sore; 





There's a home that's 

filled with grief 

and woe, 

And a wife that's felled 

with a savage blow. 



508 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



509 




All? Why, no, there's a 

job that's lost, 
There's an empty purse that 

can meet no cost; 




There's a watch to pawn and 

a chair to sell; 
There's money to borrow and 

a thirst to quell; 




There's an empty glass 

and a fight or two, 
And a fine to pay 

for an eye that's blue* 




All? Why, no, there's 

a demon's curse; 
There a child to kick 

and a wound to nursz; 



510 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 




There's a home to break 

and a wife to scrub- - 
And the song of her life 

is rub, rub, rub; 




There's a free lunch served 

in a sample room, 
And some chores to do 

with a rag or broom; 




There's the price to beg 

for a burning drink, 




And a place to sleep 

where drunkards sink. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



511 



lfcii3W| 




S==— 3 



All? Why, no, there is 

half untold: 
There's a heart grown sick 

and limbs grown cold, 




There's a manhood gone 

and a substitute 
That is half a fiend 

and half a brute; 




There's a place to rob and a man to kill; 
There's a prison cell for a man to fill: 




There's a speedy trial, and a verdict read, 
And a wife that weeps as the doom is said; 



512 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 




There's a curse and a prayer 

as the gallows fall; 




And as for your whiskey, 



why, ' that's all 



BUM'S MANIAC. 



Confined mid crazy people? Why? 
Why am I thus, the maniac cried, 
I am not mad; knave, stand aside, 

I'll have my freedom or I'll die. 
It's not for cure that here I've come, 
I tell you all I want is rum, 
I must have rum. 

Sane? Yes, and have been all the while, 
Then why tormented thus? 'Tis sad, 
Why chained and held in durance vile? 
Then men who brought me here were 
mad. 
I will not stay where specters come. 
Let me go home, I must have rum. 
I must have rum. 

'Tis He! 'Tis He! My aged sire, 

What has disturbed thee in thy grave? 
Why bend on me that eye of fire? 
Why torment since thou canst not 
save? 
Back to the churchyard whence you've 

come, 
Return! Return! But send me rum, 
Oh, send me rum. 

Why is my mother musing there, 
On that same consecrated spot 
Where once she taught me words of 
prayer? 
But now she heeds, she hears me not. 
Mute in her winding sheet she stands; 
Cold! Cold! I feel her icy hands, 
Her icy hands. 



It won't wash out — that crimson stain — 
I've scoured those spots and made 
them white. 
Blood reappears again; again; 

Soon as the morning brings the light. 
When from my sleepless couch I come. 
To see! To feel! Oh give me rum. 
I must have rum. 

'Twas there I heard his piteous wail 
And saw his last imploring look, 

But steeled my heart and bade him die, 
And from him golden treasure took. 

Accursed treasure, stinted sum. 

Reward of guilt: Give, give me rum, 
Oh! give me rum. 

Hark! still I hear that piteous wail. 

Before my eyes his specter stands, 
And when it frowns on me I quail. 

Oh! I would fly to other lands, 
But that pursuing there 'twould come. 
There's no escape. Oh! give me rum, 
Oh! give me rum. 

Guard! Guard! those windows, bar that 
door, 
Yonder I armed bandits see, 
They've robbed my house of all its store 

And now return to murder me 
They're breaking in. Don't let them 

come. 
Drive, drive them hence, but give me 
rum, 
Oh! give me rum. 

See how that rug those reptiles soil. 
They're crawling o'er me in my bed. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



513 



I feel their clammy, snakey coil 

On every limb, around my head. 
With forked tongue I see them play — 
I hear them hiss-s-: Tear them away, 
Tear them away. 

A fiend! A fiend! with many a dart, 

Glares on me with his bloodshot eye 
And aims his missiles at my heart. 

Oh! whither, whither shall I fly? 
Fly? No! It is no time for flight. 

Fiend, I know thy purpose well, 
Avaunt! avaunt! thou hated sprite, 

And hie thee to thy native hell. 

He's gone, he's gone, and I am free- 
He's gone, the faithless braggart liar. 
He said he'd come to summon me. 

See there again, my bed's on fire- 
Fire! Water! Help! Oh haste! I die! 
The flames are kindling round my 
head, 
The smoke! I'm strangling! cannot flv. 
O! snatch me from this burning bed! 

There, there again; that demon's there, 

Crouching to make a fresh attack. 
See how his flaming eyeballs glare. 

Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought 
thee back? 
Back in thy car; for whom, for where? 

He smiles, he beckons me to come, 
What are those words thou'st written 
there? 

"In hell they never want for rum." 

Not want for rum? read that again. 

I feel the spell. Haste, drive me down. 
Where rum is free, where revelers reign 

And I can wear the drunkard's crown. 

Accept thy proffer, fiend? I will, 

And to thy drunken banquet come. 
Fill the great cauldron from thy still 

With boiling, burning, fiery rum. 
There will I quench this horrid thirst, 

With boon companions drink and 
dwell. 
Nor plead for rum as here I must. 

There's liberty to drink in hell. 

Thus raved that maniac rum had made, 
Then starting from his lowly bed. 

On! on! Ye demons, on! he said. 

Then silent sunk. His soul had fled. 

Scoffer, beware, he in that shroud, 
Was once a temperate drinker proud. 
— Selected. 



THE DRUNKABD'S DAUGHTER. 



Go feel what I have felt, 
Go bear what I have borne; 

Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt. 
And the cold, proud world's scorn; 

Thus struggle on from year to year, 
Thy sole relief — the scalding tear. 

Go weeD as I have wept, 

O'er a loved father's fall; 
See every cherished promise swept, 



Youth's sweetness turned to gall; 
Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way 
That led me up to woman's day. 

Go kneel as I have knelt; 

Implore, beseech and pray, 
Strive the besotted heart to melt, 

The downward course to stay; 
Be cast with bitter curse aside — 

Thy prayers burlesqued; thy tears 
defied. 

Go stand as I have stood, 
And see the strong man bow, 

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in 
blood, 
And cold and livid brow; 

Go catch his wandering glance, and see 
There mirrored his soul's misery. 

Go hear what I have heard — 

The sobs of sad despair, 
As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, 

And its revealings there 
Have told him what he might have been, 

Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 

Go to my mother's side, 

And her crushed spirit cheer; 
Thine own deep anguish hide, 

Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed 

brow, 
The gray that streaks her dark hair 

now; 
Her toilworn frame, her trembling limb, 
And trace the ruin back to him 
Whose plighted faith,in early youth, 
Promised eternal love and truth; 
But who, foresworn, hath yielded up 
That promise to the deadly cup, 
And led her down from love and light, 
From all that made her pathway bright, 
And chained her there, 'mid want and 

strife, 
That lowly thing — a drunkard's wife! 
And stamped on childhood's brow so 

mild, 
That withering blight — a drunkard's 

child! 

Go hear, and see, and feel, and know, 
All that my soul hath felt and known, 

Then look upon the wine-cup glow; 
See if its brightness can atone; 

Think if its flavor you will try, 

If all proclaimed, " 'Tis drink and die!" 

Tell me I hate the bowl; 

Hate is a feeble word; 
I loathe, abhor — my very soul 

With strong disgust is stirred, 
When e'er I see, or hear, or tell, 

Of the dark beverage of hell. 

—Selected. 



"IP." 

If you want a red nose and dim bleary 

eyes; 
If you wish to be one whom all men 

despise; 



514 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



If you wish to be ragged and weary and 

sad; 
If you wish, in a word, to go to the 

bad; 

Then drink! 

If you wish that your life a failure may 
be; 

If you wish to be penniless — out at the 
knee; 

If you wish to be homeless, broken, for- 
lorn; 

If you wish to see pointed the finger of 
scorn; 

Then drink! 

If you wish that your manhood be shorn 

of its strength; 
That your days may be shortened to 

one-half their length; 
If you like the gay music of curse or of 

wail; 
If you long for the shelter of poorhouse 

or jail; 

Then drink! 

If your tastes don't agree with the "if" 
as above; 

If you'd rather have life full of bright- 
ness and love; 

If you care not to venture nor find out 
too soon 

That the gateway of hell lies through 
the saloon! 

Then don't drink! 

— Selected. 



BLOOD-MONEY. 



At ease, in his glory, the rumseller ate, 
Nor cared for the cost of his viands and 

plate. 
His wife shone in silks, and her jewels 

were bright, 
He thought not, nor cared for, the ter- 
rible blight 
To his customer's home, where poverty 

fed 
On crusts in the gloom and no warm, 

downy bed 
Was left for the weary ones resting on 

straw; 
His heart was too cold for sweet Pity to 

thaw. 
The angel looked sadly about him and 

said: 
"This wealth is. all blood-money, bloody 

and red." 

A delicate cup of old Java's delight 
Stood 'mid the china so pearly and 

bright; 
He sips at his coffee, delicious with 

cream, 
And Cuba's best sugar; how fragrant 

the steam! 
The steak rare and tender gives flavor 

q e SWPAt 

As Solomon tasted in glory complete. 
But still spoke the angel its warning 
and said; 



"'Tis all bought with blood-money, 
bloody and red!" 

The pie was mince, rich with sweets 

from the isles, 
The spices Malacca had nourished with 

smiles. 
The hot rolls were tender, the butter 

like gold; 
But still spoke the angel in whispers 

bold: 
"The table is cursed, ah, most bitterly 

cursed! 
'Tis bought with the serpent that mur- 
ders with thirst." 
Stern was his look as with anguish he 

said: 
" 'Tis all bought with blood-money, 

bloody and red!" 

The rumseller heard not, but leaned in 

his chair, 
And thought of his customers jolly and 

fair; 
Whose nerves were still firm, who could 

pour down the wine, 
And praise his strong brandy; their 

wealth was a mine; 
And from it he hoped his great coffers 

to fill. 
His labor was easy! the worm of the 

still 
Worked ceaseless for him, while God's 

messenger said: 
" 'Tis blood-money, blood-money, fear- 
fully red!" 

He said in his heart, like the rich men 

of old, 
"Take ease, and be merry for silver and 

gold." 
He thought when his coffers with treas- 
ures were deep, 
His joy would be greater, and sweeter 

his sleep. 
And little he dreamed of the horror to 

come, 
When he should be called from his 

riches and rum! 
But yet the strong angel cried louder, 

and said: 
"The wealth is but blood-money, bloody 

and red!" 

Go through the city and mark where ap- 
pears 
The blood-money reeking and briny with 

tears. 
O, what a sacrifice! for it were given 
Both body and soul, and the sweet hope 

of Heaven, 
There's a cry! there's a cry from the 

dark pit of woe! 
O, my soul, there's a hell where the 

drunkard must go, 
And if he be sent there 'mid terrors 

untold, 
Then what is his doom who destroyed 

him for gold? 

— Selected. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



515 



THE SHADOW. 



Drink, drink, drink, 

It is only a sip at first, 
And drink, drink, drink, 

With never a dream of the worst; 
But a ghastly shadow stands 

With a mocking laugh and a taunt, 
And whispers low of a life of woe, 

And misery, grief and want. 

Drink, drink, drink, 

In a parlor rich and grand. 
And drink, drink, drink, 

The toast from the jeweled hand; 
But drunkard you never have seen 

And drunkard you never will see 
Who read his doom in the gilded room 

Or the smile of a bride to be. 

Drink, drink, drink, 

While the youthful fires burn bright, 
And drink, drink, drink, 

Secure in your boasted might. 
In the garden of early years 

Life's habits grow deep and fast. 
And the drinking song of the merry 
throng 

May end in a dirge at last. 

Drink, drink, drink, 

The fires burn lower now, 
But drink, drink, drink, 

It must come, no matter how! 
No longer the gilded room, 

No longer the bride to be, 
But a mother wild with a starving child 

In a garret of poverty. 

Drink, drink, drink, 

The Shadow has claimed its prize, 
And drink, drink, drink, 

Stands forth in its proper guise. 
Yes! Prophet of Death, stand forth! 

Thou Vulture of Night, be known! 
If but to be raised in righteous wrath, 

High on a blood-stained throne! 

There with Chaos and Ruin 

Exult o'er the anguish you spread; 
Endless distress for the living, 

Eternal despair for the dead! 
Encompass the fatal beginning 

With every alluring delight, 
And smile when the bark drifts out in 
the dark, 

To sink in the ocean of night. 

— Harvey M. Rarr. 



THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE. 



Weary and sad I am sitting alone 

With a dying babe and a cold hearth- 
stone; 

And list to the sound of the drifting 
snow; 

Oh, how unlike to long ago! 

Those golden dreams have passed away, 
That filled my heart on its marriage day. 
And the trembling tear drops silent flow 
Are the tribute pearls of long ago. 



9 — » 

Oh! the hidden power of the sparkling 

wine 
Can banish love from its holiest shrine, 
And place in its stead a wreath of woe 
In the faded hopes of long ago. 

The crowning joy of a woman's life 
Is breathed in the blissful name of wife, 
And the deepst pangs her heart can know 
Is the blighted love of long ago. 

— Selected. 



UNDER THE LICENSE LAW, 



SCENE I. 
Plays a boy whose very loveliness 

Brim full of mirth and glee, 
Before me like a vision bright, 

Gladdens the heart to see. 

His face is fair, his eyes are blue, 

His cheeks are rosy red; 
Long shining curls of golden hue, 

Are clustering round his head. 

A father's pride, a mother's joy, 
From the moment of his birth, 

A gentle, loving, noble boy — 
Too innocent for earth. 

SCENE II. 
The scene is changed; a mother sad, 

Her lonely vigil keeps. 
Watches and waits with aching heart, 

While all the household sleeps. 

Where is my darling boy to-night? 

What keeps him out so late? 
Weeping, she looks and listens, 

When! Hark! Yes, that's the gate. 

And voices, too, her mother heart 

Is sinking now with fear, 
Rising, she opens wide the door. 

Oh! bring him quickly here. 

Struck by a comrade whom he loved, 

Killed in a drunken row, 
And the mother's reason leaves its throne 

As the color leaves her brow. 

SCENE III. 
In prison cell, a handsome youth 

With grief is stricken low, 
For he, while maddened by the drink, 

Had struck the cruel blow. 

Killed him! say you? my dearest friend, 

And drove his mother wild; 
And my poor mother; what of her? 

I am her only child. 

Licensed to sell! Licensed to sell! 

We read and thought we'd go 
In there and have a jolly time; 

No fear of law, you know. 

Licensed to sell! Licensed to sell! 

To blight, to blast, to kill, 
To craze the brain and cause a crime, 

The prison cells to fill. 



516 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



Ke sells, and all the better lives; 

I drink, and must I die! 
Is this, my father, what you did. 

Voting for License High? 

Take care, ye men who make the laws, 
Your boys may be like me, 

You license men to sell the curse, 
Who shall its victims be? 

— E. E. Race. 



ASKED AND ANSWERED. 



Citizens, neighbors, you and I, 

"What are we going to do if this town 

goes dry? 
We may get along without our drink, 
But who will it hurt most, do you think? 

What are we going to do if the town 

goes dark, 
With not enough money for the electric 

spark, 
Not enough money for water plugs, 
Our town at the mercy of fire and thugs? 

Who's going to pay for the needed 

police? 
Who's going to furnish the needed 

grease 
To oil the wheels of the city machine, 
To keep the town healthy, the streets to 

clean? 

What will we do? Will we issue bonds 
To pay our officers and drain our ponds? 
What will we do in case of fire, 
With our firemen all fired and none to 
hire? 

When insurance goes up and property 

goes down, 
With never a job for a man in town, 
And the market is off for the farmer's 

rye 
And his corn and barley, when the town 

goes dry. 

I tell you, my friends, it's a serious 

thing 
That some of these fanatics to this town 

would bring. 
The only thing left when they stop the 

cup 
Is to cut our suspenders and go straight 

up. 

— Author unknown. 



What will we do if the town goes dry? 
We will save our money, provisions to 

buy; 
Though butter and eggs be ever so high, 
We'll have plenty for all if the town 

goes dry. 

Who will it hurt the most, do you think? 
The man who's determined to have his 

strong drink, 
If the laws are enforced and carried out 

right, 



It will hurt the man most who goes in 
for a fight. 

We'll have plenty of money for boots 

and shoes, 
For light or dark clothing, whichever 

you choose, 
Don't worry about money to pay for the 

light, 
If the town will go dry and learn to do 

right. 

Don't be afraid of the town going dark, 
Or lacking the funds to pay for the 

spark, 
Cut out the bottle, the glass and the 

jug, 
You'll have plenty of money to pay for 

the plugs, 
And our town can rest, not fearing the 

thugs. 

The town will not need so many police, 
Hence you'll not need so much of the 

grease. 
The walks will keep clean by night and 

by day, 
And all the vile odors be taken away. 

What will we do? Yes, we'll issue bonds, 

And build a fine schoolhouse with foun- 
tains and ponds. 

What will we do if fire should come? 

We'll fight it with firemen not fired up 
with rum. 

When insurance goes up and property 

down, 
You may bet your old boots you are in 

a wet town, 
For the risk is greater and the cost runs 

higher 
In a town with its people filled with hell 

fire. 

If the market goes oft% on corn, barley, 

and rye, 
As the old whiskey wets raise a hue and 

a cry, 
I'll tell you, good farmer, how to do 

well, 
By raising more hogs and not so much 

hell. 

I'll tell you, my friends, it's a serious 

thing 
To clean up a town of pollution and sin. 
If the town should go dry, may God 

speed the day, 
Don't cut your suspenders, for you won't 

go that way. 

And now, my friends, if I have answered 

you right, 
And shown you a way for your water 

and light, 
With prosperity in sight and victory 

nigh, 
Just trust in the Lord and vote your 

town dry. 

— G. C. Brown. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



517 



A VOICE FROM THE FOORHOUSE. 



"My dear friends," said the doctor, "I 
favor 

License for selling rum, 
These fanatics tell us with horror 

Of the mischief liquor has done; 
I say as a man and physician, 

The system's requirements are such 
That unless we, at times, assist nature, 

The body and mind suffer much. 
'Tis a blessing when worn out and 
weary — 

A moderate drink now and then." 
From the minister by the pulpit 

Came an audible murmer, "Amen!'* 

" 'Tis true that many have fallen, 

Become filthy drunkards, and worse, 
Harmed others. No, I don't uphold them; 

They made their blessing a curse. 
Must I be denied for their sinning? 

Must the weak ones govern the race? 
Why, every good thing God has given, 

Is only a curse out of place. 
'Tis only excess that destroys us; 

A little is good now and then." 
From the white-haired, pious old deacon 

Came a fervent, loud-spoken "Amen!" 

Then, up from a seat in the corner, 

From the midst of the murmuring 
throng, 
From among the people there gathered 

To crush out and trample out wrong, 
'Rose a woman, her thin hands uplifted, 

"While out from her frost-covered hair 
Gazed a face of such agonized white- 
ness, 

A face of such utter despair, 
The vast throng grew hushed in a 
moment, 

Grew silent with terror and dread; 
They gazed on the face of the woman 

As we gaze on the face of the dead. 

Then the hush and the silence was 
broken, 
A voice so shrill and so clear 
Rang out through the room: "Look 
upon me, 
You wonder what chance brought me 
here; 
You know me and now you shall hear 
me, 
I speak to you, lovers of wine, 
For once I was young, rich and happy, 
Home, husband and children were 
mine. 

"Where are they? I ask you where are 
they? 
False teacher of God's holy word! 
My husband — my kind, loving husband — 
Whom my prayers and tears might 
have stirred, 
Remembered your teachings, turned 
from me — 
Me kneeling and pleading with him. 
'Twas a God-given blessing, you told 
him, 
And only excess was a sin. 



And where are my boys? God forgive 

you! 
They heeded your counsels — not mine; 
You, doctor, beloved and respected, 

You could see no danger in wine 
For my boys so strong and so manly, 

How could I hope ever to win 
When their doctor said 'twas a blessing, 

And only excess was a sin? 

"My husband, so noble and loving, 

My boys, so proud and so brave, 
They lie side by side in the churchyard, 

Each filling a drunkard's grave. 
I have come from the poorhouse to tell 
you 

My story, and now it is done. 
Go on, if you will, in your madness, 

And license the selling of rum. 

"Before the great judgment eternal, 
When the last dread moment has 
come, 
They'll stand there to witness against 
you, 
My dear ones, the victims of rum. 
When the shadows of earth are lifted, 
And life's secret thoughts are laid 
bare, 
By the throne of the Great Eternal, 
I shall witness against you there." 
— Selected. 



THE SIGN BOARD. 



I will paint you a sign, rumseller, 

And hang it above your door, 
A truer and better sign board 

Than you have had before; 
I will paint with the skill of a master, 

And many shall pause to see 
This wonderful piece of painting, 

So like the reality. 

I will paint yourself, rumseller, 

As you wait for that fair young boy, 

Just in the morn of manhood, 
A mother's pride and joy; 

He has no thought of stopping, 
But you greet him with a smile, 

And you seem so blithe and friendly, 

• That he pauses to chat a while. 

I will paint you again, rumseller, 

I will paint you as you stand, 
With a foaming glass of liquor 

Held out in either hand; 
He wavers, but you urge him, 

"Drink! pledge me just this one!" 
And he lifts the glass and drains it, 

And the fatal work is done. 

And I next will paint a drunkard, 

Only a year has flown, 
But into this loathsome creature 

The fair young boy has grown; 
The work was quick and rapid; 

I will paint him as he lies 
In a torpid, drunken slumber, 

Under the wintry skies. 



518 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



I will paint the form of a mother, 
As she kneels at her darling's side — 

Her beautiful boy who was dearer 
Than all the world beside; 

I will paint the shape of a coffin 
Labelled with one word — "lost!" 

I will paint all this, rumseller, 
I will paint it free of cost. 

The sin and the shame and sorrow, 
The crime and want and woe, 

That are born there in your rumshop, 
No hand can paint you know; 

But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller, 
And many may pause to view 

This wonderful, swinging sign board, 
So terribly, fearfully true. 

— Church Union. 



THE PART THEY DO NOT TELL. 



When the Fourth of July comes round 

each year 
An army of orators take the stand 
And tell with a show of words sublime, 
The glories that crown our native land. 

They speak in a tone to bring forth tears 
Of the good red blood the patriots 

spilled; 
And with quavering voice they tell of 

the host 
"Who in later wars were maimed and 

killed. 

They dwell on the Constitutional clause 
That says nobody should be denied 
The right to happiness, liberty, life; 
They point with a pardonable pride 
To the Stars and Stripes whose bright 

folds wave 
O'er the land where justice seems to 

reign, 
The land of the free, the home of the 

brave. 

They praise with enthusiastic vim 
A fleet that unchallenged floats the sea, 
And brings forth the cheers of the mul- 
titude 
Recounting a nation's prosperity. 

But they never whisper, nor peep, nor 

hint 
Of a nation's partnership with hell — 
Of a deal with a traffic born to blight — 
No, this is a part they do not tell. 

They do not tell of a nation's sons — 
A felon each man in a prison cell, 
The sure effect of the cause it grants — 
This belongs to the part they do not tell. 

They do not mention the want and pain 
That marks the homes where the drunk- 
ards dwell ; 
They never describe the broken hearts 
Nor the wails that sound like a funeral 
knell. 



They do not picture the potter's field, 
Describing how most of the victims fell; 
They say no word of the drunkard's 

doom, 
No — this is the part they do not tell. 

Give us some orators — men, not tools, 
Who will cry aloud and never spare, 
Until a nation's league with sin 
Shall of its gloss, lie stripped and bare. 

The ship of state with its sails set free 
Rides high prosperity's fickle wave; 
But under this smooth inviting sea 
The rocks of destruction surely hide — 
Rocks of a legalized deal with hell, 
A deal that the orators never tell. 

— Bernie Babcock. 



THE JOLLY DISTILLER. 



Oh, I am a jolly distiller; 

I'm rich and contented with life; 

My nose may be red, but I am well-fed, 

And so are my children and wife. 

Yes, I am a jolly distiller, 
At morning, at night and at noon; 
And I never hurry or get in a worry 
Lest folks should destroy the saloon. 

Oh, I am a jolly distiller, 
For business is booming, you see; 
My gains are immense, (at others' ex- 
pense), 
And that is convenient for me. 

For I am a jolly distiller, 

An' temperance people are fools; 

But I ain't afraid o' the rumpus they've 

made, 
For Liquor is king — an' he rules. 

Oh, I am a jolly distiller, 
Who knows his position is strong; 
For all the church ranks, 'ceptin' tem- 
perance cranks, 
Are votin' for us right along. 

Mrs. Frank A. Breck. 



CAN IT BE RIGHT? 



Can it be right to take the fruit 
That heaven in love bestows 

And make the vile, deceitful stuff 
That fills the world with woes? 

Can it be right to take the grain 
That God to man has given 

And make of it the awful stuff 
That keeps men out of heaven? 

Can it be right for me to say 
That the men can buy and sell 

This awful stuff in such a way 
That sends their souls to hell? 

Can it be right for me to pray 

"Thy kingdom come," and then 
Go cast my vote in such a way 
That helps the devil win? 
Selected and revised by Elton R. Shaw. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



519 



A BOY WANTED. 



I want a boy at my saloon, 

A boy has died, and now there's room 
For a new boy to start right in 

To live a life of shame and sin. 

I want a boy with a fine home, 
A boy who has a good income. 

I want a boy with many friends, 
For without boys my business ends. 

I want a boy, some mother's boy, 
Who is her comfort and her joy, 

Such boys to me are worth the most, 
For they are leaders of a host. 

I want a boy who is not afraid 

To start right on the downward grade, 

A boy who's always very brave, 

For he must fill a drunkard's grave. 
Selected and revised by Elton R. Shaw. 



THE DRUNKARD'S FATE. 



One drink won't hurt a man, they said, 

But ah, alas! I know 
My health has fled, my hopes are dead, 

My friend is now my foe. 

I once was clean and pure and good, 

Until I tipped the bowl, 
But now a wrecked and ruined frame, 

A blighted, withered soul. 

An outcast and a vagabond, 

Unclean and all defiled, 
Disgraced and ruined without hope 

By appetite beguiled. 

Beware, young man, 'tis the first drink 
That starts you down the row, 

That leads from purity and peace 
To misery and woe. 
Selected and revised by Elton R. Shaw. 



"TEE BEER THAT MADE MILWAU- 
KEE FAMOUS." 



"The beer that made Milwaukee famous" 

fame, 
For which her noble sons would blush 

with shame, 
If beer her legends told. Tear down the 

lie, 
And rise, Milwaukee, rise and make re- 
ply. 
Show your metropolis in light more fair, 
Show where your handiwork few can 

compare. 
Blot out the lying words, tear down the 

sign, 
Lift up an emblem, your graces refine.. 
Show that all beer is beer, label or cork, 
Ribbon or brand, beer is beer in New 

York; 
Beer's beer in a keg, and beer's beer in a 

can, 
No matter if made away off in Japan. 
So tear down the sign, Milwaukee, your 

beer 



Is as bad as the worst that causes a 

sneer. 
It's as bad as the worst that goes to the 

head, 
And makes a man wish that he really 

were dead; 
It's as bad as the beer that's taken the 

coin, 
Which should have bought bread, butter 

and loin; 
It's as bad as the beer that causes a 

fight, 
From a sot that is out on a drunk for 

the night. 
Then rise, city, rise, Milwaukee, your 

fame 
Should be found in the towers that cher- 
ish your name, 
In your parks, and the bay where the 

whitefish abound, 
And your harbor as safe as ever was 

found; 
And your men, who respond to charity's 

call, 
Are things that have made you most 

famous of all. 
So tear down the maudlin, the frivolous 

lie, 
That cheapens your worth and vexes the 

eye, 
And raise up a banner the sober may 

cheer, 
Milwaukee forever, but never for beer. 

— Oliver Allstorm. 



X HAVE DRUNK MY LAST GLASS. 



No, comrades, I thank you, not any for 

me; 
My last chain is riven, henceforth I'm 

free; 
I will go to my home and my children 

to-night 
With no fumes of liquor their spirits to 

blight; 
And with tears in my eyes I will beg 

my poor wife 
To forgive the wreck I have made of her 

life, 
I never refused you before! Let that 

pass, 
For I've drunk my last glass, boys; I've 
drunk my last glass. 

Just look at me now, boys, in rags and 
disgrace, 

With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my 
red, bloated face; 

See my faltering step, and my weak, pal- 
sied hand, 

And mark on my brow that is worse 
than Cain's brand; 

See my crownless old hat, and my el- 
bows and knees, 

Alike warmed by the sun, or chilled by 
the breeze. 

Why, even the children will hoot as I 
pass; 

But I've drunk my last glass, boys; I've 
drunk my last glass. 



520 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



You would scarce believe, boys, to look 

at me now, 
That a mother's soft hand was pressed 

on my brow 
When she kissed me and blessed me, her 

darling, her pride, 
Ere she laid down to rest by my dear 

father's side; 
But, with love in her eyes, she looked up 

to the sky, 
Bidding me meet her there, and whis- 
pered, "Good-by." 
And I'll do it, God helping. Your smile 

I let pass, 
For I've drunk my last glass, boys; I've 

drunk my last glass. 

Ah! I reeled home last night; it was not 

very late, 
For I'd spent my last sixpence, and 

landlords won't wait 
On a fellow who's left every cent in 

their till, 
And has pawned his last bed their cof- 
fers to fill. 
Oh! the torments I felt, and the pangs 

I endured! 
And I begged for one glass, just one 

would have cured. 
But they kicked me out doors, I let that, 

too, pass, 
For I've drunk my last glass, boys; I 

have drunk my last glass. 

At home, my pet, Susie, with her rich, 

golden hair, 
I saw through the window, just kneel- 
ing in prayer; 
From her pale, bony hands her torn 

sleeves hung down, 
While her feet, cold and bare, shrank 

beneath her scant gown; 
And she prayed, prayed for bread, just a 

mere crust of bread. 
For one crust, on her knees, my poor 

darling plead. 
And I heard with no penny to buy, alas! 
But I've drunk my last glass, boys; I've 

drunk my last glass. 

For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year- 
old, 
Tho' fainting with hunger and shivering 

with cold, 
There on the bare floor asked God to 

bless me; 
And she said, "Don't cry, mamma, He 

will; for you see, 
I believe what I ask for." Then sobered 

I crept 
Away from the house, and that night 

when I slept, 
Next my heart lay the pledge. You 

smile! Let it pass, 
For I've drunk my last glass, boys; I 

have drunk my last glass. 

My darling child saved me! Her faith 

and her love 
Are akin to my dear sainted mother's 

above! 
I will make my words true or I'll die 

in the race, 



And sobered I'll go to my last resting 

place; 
And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, 

thank God, 
No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn 

sod! 
Not a drop more of poison my lips shall 

e'er pass, 
For I've drunk my last glass, boys; I 

have drunk my last glass. 

— Selected by E. W. Hurley. 



THAT'S SO. 



THAT'S SO, the dance is a joy of a vul- 
gar sort, 

'Tis a sensual, carnal, voluptuous sport; 

And the ballroom's a snare, with lewd- 
ness alive, 

Where "mashers" may swarm like bees 
in a hive; 

'Tis the highroad where passion first 
yields to the flame, 

Then falls, and is crushed in the gutter 
in shame. 

Go ask those that writhe in the whirl- 
pool of lust, 

How first they were led to a life of dis- 
gust; 

And the slattern of body and seared one 
of soul, 

Will answer, "The ballroom led me to 
this role." 

THAT'S SO, and yet others will trip the 

mad waltz, 
And smile on the step so alluring and 

false. 
There's the libertine there — should he 

elsewhere employ 
His tact at deception, or strive to decoy 
The one that you rocked as a baby to 

sleep, 
Into ways that bring ruin, and pits that 

are deep, 
All true men would brand him, and 

brothers would rave, 
And a bullet may hasten the friend to 

his grave. 

THAT'S SO, yet the ballroom has license 

to fleer 
In the face of all honor, to flout and to 

jeer 
At the laws of respect; half-roled they 

unite 
In the "hugging to music" — tight, and 

more tight; 
Then a wine-glass or two and an ante- 
room rest, 
And a midnight wind blowing upon the 

warm breast. 
Death lurks in that wind, and a dirge 

moves the night, 
And a fun'ral march follows the one of 

delight. 

THAT'S SO, — many fair ones have per- 
ished in sin, 

For they never come out just as they 
go in. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



521 



Still men for "stag dances" shall no 

eagerness show, 
So long must our answer be sadly, 

"THAT'S SO." 

— Oliver Allstorm. 



WHO IS TO BLAMS? 



The saloon is wide open in our little 
town, 
And doing its best to succeed 
In debauching our morals, and dragging 
us down 
To serve the saloon-keeper's greed. 
There are some who think 
An occasional drink 
Is a thing at which good people 
surely might wink; 
Though their talk is all nonsense, their 

reasoning lame, 
The saloon is wide open, and who is to 
blame? 

And then there are others you will not 
find loath 
Each argument, threadbare, to seize 
To decry moral law — and affirm with an 
oath, 
The right to do just as they please. 
And such people will, 
Of course, guzzle and swill, 
And deposit their funds in the bar- 
keeper's till; 
Unlimited license and freedom they 

claim: 
The saloon is wide open, and who is to 
blame ? 

We have plenty of churches and good 
people, too, 
As respectable folk we are great; 
In comparison drunkards and brawlers 
are few 
To the many who keep themselves 
straight. 
We have, by the way, 
A Y. M. C. A., 

And devotional service at noon 
every day; 
Yet the truth must be spoken with sor- 
row and shame, 
The saloon is wide open, and who is to 
blame? 

-Frank Beard. 



POORHOUSE NAIT. 



Did you say you wished to see me, sir? 

Step in; 'tis a cheerless place, 
But you're heartily welcome, all the 
same; 

Oh, yes, sir! 'tis only twenty winters 
gone 
Since poor Jim took to crooked ways. 

And left me all alone! 
Jim was my son, and a likelier lad 

You'd never wish to see, 
Till evil counsel won his heart 

And led him away from me. 



'Tis the old and pitiful story, sir, 

Of the devil's winding stair, 
And men going down, and down, and 
down, 

To blackness and despair; 
Tossing about like wrecks at sea, 

With helm and anchor lost; 
On, and on, through the surging waves, 

Not caring to count the cost; 
I doubt sometimes if the Saviour sees — 

He seems so far away — 
How the souls he loved and died for, 

Are drifting, drifting astray. 

Indeed 'tis no wonder, sir, 

If woman shrieks and cries, 
When the life-blood on rum's altar 
spilled, 

Is calling to the skies; 
Small wonder if her own heart feels 

Each sacrificial blow, 
For isn't each life part of hers? 

Each pain, each hurt and woe? 
Read all records of crime and shame, 

'Tis bitterly, sadly true: 
Where manliness and honor die, 

There some woman's heart dies too. 

Often I think when I hear folks 

Talk so prettily and so fine, 
Of alcohol as a needful drink; 

Of the moderate use of wine; 
How the world couldn't do without it, 

There was clearly no other way, 
But for man to drink or let it alone, 

As his own strong will might say; 
That to use it, but not abuse it, 

Was the proper thing to do; 
How I wish they'd let old Poorhouse Nan 

Preach her little sermon, too! 

I could give them scenes in a woman's 
life 

That would make their pulses stir, 
For I was a drunkard's child and wife, 

Aye, a drunkard's mother, sir; 
I would tell of childish terrors, 

Of childish tears and pains, 
Of cruel blows from a father's hand, 

When rum had crazed his brain. 
He always said he could drink his fill, 

Or let it alone as well; 
Perhaps he might, he was killed one 
night 

In a brawl in a grog-shop hell. 

I would tell of years of loneliness 

The drunkard's child had passed, 
With just one gleam of sunshine, 

Too beautiful to last! 
When I married Tom I thought for sure 

I had nothing more to fear, 
That life would come all right at last, 

The world seemed full of cheer; 
But he took to moderate drinking, 

He allowed 'twas a harmless thing, 
So the arrow sped, and my bird of hope 

Came down with a broken wing. 

Tom was a moderate drinker; 

Oh, sir! do you bear in mind 
How the plodding tortoise in the race 

Left the fleeing hare behind? 



522 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



'Twas because he held right on and on, 

And steady and true, if slow; 
And that's the way, I'm thinking, 

That the moderate drinkers go! 
Step over step, day after day, 

With sleepless, tireless pace, 
While the toper sometimes looks behind 

And tarries in the race. 

Ah! heavily in the well-worn path 

Poor Tom walked day by day; 
For my heartstrings clung around his 
feet, 

And tangled up the way. 
The days were dark, and the friends 
were gone, 

And life dragged on full slow; 
And children came, like reapers sad, 

To a harvest of want and woe; 
Two of them died, and I was glad 

When they lay before me dead; 
I had grown weary of their cries, 

Their pitiful cries for bread. 

There came a time when my heart was 
stone; 

I could neither hope nor pray; 
Poor Tom lay out in the potter's field, 

And my boy had gone astray. 
My boy who had been my idol, 

While like hounds athirst for blood, 
Between my breaking heart and him 

The liquor seller stood, 
And lured him on with his poison, 

His pleasure and his wine. 
Ah! God have mercy on other hearts, 

As bruised and sad as mine. 
There were whispers of evil doings, 

Of dishonor and of shame, 
That I cannot bear to think of now, 

And would not dare to name; 
There was hiding away from the light 
of day, 

There was a creeping about at night, 
A hurried word of parting, 

Then a criminal's stealthy flight, 
When he gave me the good-bye kiss; 
And I've never seen my poor, lost boy, 

Prom that black day to this. 

Ah! none but a mother can tell you, sir, 

How a mother's heart will ache 
With the sorrow that comes of a sinning 
child, 

With grief for a lost one's sake, 
When she knows the feet she trained to 
walk 

Have gone so far away, 
And the lips grown bold with curses, 

That she taught to sing and pray. 
A child may fear, a wife may weep, 

But of all sad things none other 
Seems half so sorrowful to us 

As being a drunkard's mother. 

They tell me that down in the vilest 
dens 
Of the city's crime and muck, 
There are men with the hearts of angels, 

Doing the angels' work; 
That they win back the lost and the 
strayed, 
That they help the weak to stand, 



By the wonderful power of loving words, 

And the help of God's right hand, 
And often and over, the dear Lord knows, 

I've knelt and prayed to Him, 
That somehow, somewhere, it would 
happen, 

That they'd find and save my Jim. 
You'll say 'tis a poor old woman's whim; 

But when I prayed last night, 
Right o'er yon eastern window 

There shone a wonderful light, 
(Leastways it looked that way to me) 

And out of the light there fell 
The softest voice I ever heard: 

It rang like a silver bell; 
And these were the words, 

"The Prodigal turns, tired by want and 
sin; 
He seeks his Father's open door; 

He weeps and enters in." 

Why, sir, you're crying as hard as I; 

What is it I have done? 
Have the loving voice and helping hand, 

Brought back my wandering son? 
Did you kiss me and call me mother 

And fold me to your breast? 
Or is it one of those tampering dreams 

That come to rob me of my rest? 
No, no! thank God, 'tis a dream come 
true; 

I know he has saved my boy 
And the poor old heart that had lived 
on hope 

Is broken as last with joy. 

— Selected. 



THE CRIMSON BALLOT. 



One day in a crowded court room 

A sentence of death was said, 
In hush of the awful stillness: 

"To be hanged by the neck until dead." 
And a mother's heart was broken 

As she faltered a murmured name, 
And a father's face was furrowed 

With the tears of grief and shame. 

It was only one of the dramas 

That are acted every day. 
And the judge on the bench had asked 
him 

What the prisoner had to say. 
"The jury has said I am guilty," 

Was the low, resigned reply, 
"The land has summoned the hang-man 

And said that I must die. 

"But before the God of Heaven 

I did not kill my friend, 
And to the looming scaffold 

A guiltless man you send. 
The dram-shop did this murder, 

And the drink that fired my brain 
That made me do its bidding, 

And held me in its chain. 

"But not upon the dram-shop, 

Nor brewery, nor still, 
Nor on the high officials, 

Who watch them steal and kill; 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



523 



But on your skirts, your honer, 

And every man who stood 
To legalize the gin-mill 

Is stamped the brand of blood." 

His voice rang out like a bugle, 

No other sound was heard, 
While something akin to terror 

In all who listened, stirred. 
And all the court room cowered 

Beneath the lash of truth; 
The boy seemed judge and jury, 

And they the sentenced youth. 

"For back of the law's officials 

Is the law that spells my fate, 
And back of the law are the people, 

And the people are the State. 
My hands held the murderous weapon, 

And the blood on its blade they saw, 
But back of the dead was the dram- 
shop, 

And back of the dram-shop the law. 

"And whosoever hath voted 

To license this evil, ties 
The shameful noose of the hang-man 

'Round the neck of the man who dies. 
And on his hands are the blood drops 

And on his brow a sign 
That he is the man who sheddeth 

My dead friend's blood and mine." 

Then back to his cell they led him 

And there on the trap he'll stand; 
And the bloody farce will be acted 

Again and again in the land. 
And every reddened gibbet 

Shall be for a nation's blame; 
For every ballot is crimson 

That is cast for a nation's shame. 
— Purity Journal. 



VOTE IT DOWN. 



There's a demon in the glass, 

Vote it down! 
You can bring the thing to pass; 

Vote it down! 
Oh! my brothers, do you know 
You can turn to joy its woe, 
And its tyranny o'erthrow? 

Vote it down! 

How it fills our souls with dread! 

Vote it down! 
As it rears its serpent head, 

Vote it down! 
Oh! so subtle has it been 
Dare not close your eyes and say 
It has left its trail of sin, 

Vote it down! 

It is growing all the time, 

Vote it down! 
To protect it is a crime, 

Vote it down! 
Dare not close your eyes and say 
"There must be some other way," 
Lest your own the demon slay, 

Vote it down! 



In your manliness arise, 

Vote it down! 
Throw aside old party ties, 

Vote it down! 
If you love our native land, 
Smite this blighting, cursing hand 
With your ballot's magic wand, 

Vote it down! 

Christian man, we call on you, 

Vote it down! 
Are you honest? are you true? 

Vote it down! 
Christ, your Saviour crucified, 
Then, as though he stood beside, 

Vote it down! 

—Ida M. Budd. 



DON'T MARRY A MAN TO REFORM 



Don't marry a man to reform him, 
To God and your own self be true; 

Don't link his vice to your virtue; 
You'll rue it, dear girl, if you do. 

No matter how fervent his pleadings, 
Be not by his good promise led; 

If he can't be a man while a-wooing, 
He'll never be one when he's wed. 

There's many a maiden has tried it, 
And just proved a failure at last; 

Better tread your life's pathway alone, 
dear, 
Than to wed a lover that's fast. 

Mankind's much the same the world 
over, 

The exceptions you'll find are but few, 
And the rule is defeat and disaster — 

The chances are great against you. 

Don't trust your bright hopes for the 
future, 

The beautiful crown of your youth, 
To the keeping of him who holds lightly 

His fair name, his honor and truth. 

To "honor and love" you must promise; 

Don't pledge what you cannot fulfill. 
If he'll have no respect for himself, dear, 

Most surely you then never will. 

Make virtue the price of your favor; 

Place wrong-doing under a ban; 
And let him who would win you and 
wed you, 
Prove himself in full measure a man! 
— Selected. 



WHAT WHISKEY WHL DO. 



They tell us alcohol removes grass 
stains from summer clothes, 

And puts a funny blossom upon the 
drinker's nose, 

It takes the carpet off the floor, the 
clothes from off his back, 



524 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



And sends him staggering down the 
street a miserable drunken wreck. 

II. 

It takes away his manhood, robs him of 

self-respect, 
And everything about the home is ruined 

by neglect, 
It takes his mental faculties and fills 

him with the shakes, 
And through an impaired vision he sees 

a thousand snakes. 

III. 
It takes away his credit from every kind 

of store, 
The people that have trusted him won't 

trust him any more, 
It robs his wife of happiness and steals 

the children's bread, 
And turns them out to charity in order 

to be fed. 

IV. 

It will take a prosperous business man 

and make of him a bum, 
If you want to see a maniac, just fill him 

up with rum, 
It will make him beat and kick his wife 

and take away her life. 
And change the home of happiness to 

misery and strife. 



It fills our jails with criminals, supplies 

the orphan's home, 
And turns men's wives upon the street 

in misery to roam, 
It takes all sunshine from their life and 

fills them with despair. 
And sends them to the river to end their 

sorrows there. 

VI. 
Yes, alcohol will do all this; it has done 

it all before, 
Yet men endowed with common sense 

will drink and call for more. 
May God help every citizen to rise in all 

his might, 
And free our land and nation from the 

gin-mill's awful blight. 

— David Warnock. 



TEE SALOON BAB. 



It bars the doors of happiness, 
And bolts the doors of love; 

Plants thorns and thistles in the path 
That leads to heaven above. 

It bars the sunlight from the home, 
Where peace and joy have fled, 

Before the plague of misery, 
Of gloom and shadows dread. 

It bars the gate of self-respect, 

Behind the wayward youth, 
And fills his mouth with language foul, 

With lies instead of truth. 



It bars the father from his home, 
And clothes his wife with shame, 

As hope and health are sacrificed 
To feed this hellish flame. 

It bars the door of rest to age, 

When life is on the wane, 
And in the couch of peacefulness 

It plants the thorns of pain. 

It bars its dupes from all that makes 

The life of mortals dear, 
And in the lonely night of death 

Has not a word of cheer. 

It bars the drunkard out of heaven, 

And drops him into hell, 
With all the damned of ages past, 

Forever there to dwell. 

It fills the grave with terror's gloom, 

For those who look ahead, 
And rears a slab of charity 

Above the unknown dead. 

Upon the drunkard's grave I see 
These words which plainly tell: 

"Life was to me a mockery, 
Death is an endless hell." 

— Selected. 



SALOON KEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 



"The saloons must go," the croakers say, 
And go it will both night and day! 
For to this end with heart intent 
We pay spot cash to a cent. 

With Uncle Sam's guns at our back, 
The prating fools must clear the track — 
For the orphan's tear, the widow's sigh, 
Let the fanatics whine and cry. 

We know our trade will thousands wreck, 
But cash must come our homes to deck — 
A broken heart, a mother's prayer, 
Though the result is not our care. 

When Uncle Sam with courage bold, 
Our business brave doth still uphold, 
With such a chance our pot to fill, 
We'll spurn results and run our mill. 

What if some fools blear'eyed do grow 
As a result of what we sow? 
Are we our brother's keeper, 'cause 
Our business wrecks and breaks God's 
laws? 

Nay! hold your tongues! keep down your 

ire! 
Our bosses buy this liquid fire! 
Eighty-nine per gallon and one cent, 
A tax to run the government. 

We dilute the stuff and dole it out' 
To thirsty guzzlers all about. 
Say, Christian voter, who's to blame? 
Say, good old parties, where's the shame? 
— Selected. 




525 




(Apologies to. Dunbar.) 



O noble race! to thee we bring 
This pledge of faith unwavering, 

This tribute to thy glory. 
We know the pangs which thou didst feel, 
When slavery crushed us with its heel, 

And left its stains all gory. 



"Sad days were those — ah, sad indeed! 

But through the land the fruitful seed 
Of better times was growing. 

The plant of freedom upward sprung, 

And spread its leaves so fresh and young- 
Its blossoms now are blowing." 

Those days are gone: ah, glad indeed, 
Are we that Etheopia's freed 

And that cause vindicated. 
But, with such triumph in our land, 
Eternal vigilance must stand 

To justice dedicated. 

Another blight! an inward foe 

Has sown our land with human woe 

And agony heartrending. 
One hundred thousand souls have gone. 
Each year to satisfy the throng 

Of fiends to avarice bending. 

On every hand in this fair land 
The products of this traffic stand, 

A blight to our own race. 
But still our sons and daughters fair, 
Must virtue lose and, in despair, 

Their nation's pride disgrace. 

Where duty calls we must prevail 
Our cause is just and cannot fail. 
In majesty and power 
To right we cling: and hymns we sing 
Up to the skies in beauty ring, 
And bolder grow each hour. 




m 



Dishonest business! No, indeed! 

We'll have our rights, by heck! 
Fanatics say they'll vote it out; 
They'll get it in the neck! 

The vice and crime ! Well what's the diff ! 

Men have to have their booze; 
Better have their liberty 
And go without their shoes. 



A score or more of customers 
Have found that they were dead 
They're up among the angels now 
And others buy instead. 

The brothels, dens of infamy, 
And gambling hells galore— 

The Prohis say they'll drive them out; 
We'd only start up more. 



The bosses of both gangs are here 
And play the game they can; 

They know we're running politics, 
They're with us to a man. 

Our brave trust-busting socialists 

Kick up an awful fuss, 
But "Pals, we'll stand right pat," they say 

If you'll only vote for us. 



The preacher on the corner there, 
Who leads the prohi throng, 

Would not for half a million votes 
Thus "compromise with wrong." 

He thinks that folks should always vote 

Exactly as they pray. 
Religion's good 'most any time 

Except on 'lection day. 

The cranks can sing their temp'rance 
songs, 

We don't care what they say, 
But men will have their liberty 

Until the judgement day. r o ij 





BRAND 



BYELTON R.SHAW— 



In a favorite daily of this, our 

fair land, 
Appeared a large ad of the Bud- 

weiser brand. 
The description was charming 

and fluently made 
Of the mammoth output of this 

company's trade. 

One hundred and twenty-eight 
acres of land 

Is used by the brewery of Bud- 
weiser brand. 

The two hundred tanks there 
will hold, so they say, 

For two million people, —a bot- 
tle each day. 

It's a wonderful story from their 
standpoint of greed, 

But sad and heartrending to hu- 
manity's need. 

I doubt if the acres about which 
they tell 

Would bury the drunkards 
they're sending to hell. 

Would the two hundred tanks 
there, now holding the beer, 

Hold the tears of the lonely ones 
mourning each year? 

"There are three million tramps 
and two million women 

Cursed by their traffic"— to pov- 
erty driven. 

Ah, yes, its a story they're tell- 
ing with pride, 

But if only they'd add the poor 
customer's side, 

'Twould be far more truthful 
but sadder to read,— 

A story of woe and of anguish 
and greed. 



Already the papers are taking 
their stand 
And refusing the ads of this curse of our land. 
For this "There's a reason." The traffic must go, 
And with it, its misery, sorrow and woe. 




528 



he: consumer 5id& 




>HMf6V/Tt1CP, 



The saloonkeepers all may JO 
be very nice men, 
But what is there in it for 
me? 
I blow in my money, and 
wake up in the pen, 
So what is there in it for me? 
Of course, I'm as welcome as 

flowers in May, 
When [ come to the joint t o 

squander my pay, 
But I wake in the cooler the very 
next day; 
And There's all there's in it for me , 

All over this country we're swimming 
in booze, 
But what is there in it for me! 
The saloonkeeper's kids are wearing- new 
shoes, 
But wh at is there in it for me? 
The distiller's share is an automobile, 
A carriage the retailer's share of the deal. 

But I'm wearing shoes that 

are down at the heel ; 

And there's al there's in it for me. 

The bookmaker's wife may be 
dressed like a queen 
But what is there in it f,^ _ „ 
My wife hasn't duds that °l£% , 
be seen e nt to 

So what is there in it f^ 



dressed, ^|°n ?e a y 

pV&eT™"^ 
And that's all there 
My thirst costs *« ~ 

at sail there's in it for me 



be 

afraid 
s ^ it for me 



Tn^v. at sa *l 
The booze took 





Thf IXlrHl ft? I * * tor me. > 1 . 

onS c r tspaid ' he ' sai — 

And that's all there's in it for me. 

Why should I vote that the curse may endure? 
* or what is there in it for me? 
1 m bound to vote dry on election day. 
sure. 
For what is there in it for me? 

A new self-respect, and a chance 
for my life, 
New clothes for the kids, and 

a home for my wife, 
The beginning of peace, the 
end of all strife; 
And that's what there's in 
it for me. 




Fofoard the Drink Brigade! 
Is there no man dismayed? 
Yes, for a Nation knows 
Someone has blundered. 
Useless to make reply. 
Useless to reason <&by, 
Their' 's but to drink anddi** 
Q% to the Valley ofJhefh 
Daily Feve Hundred, 




Courtesy tt^me Herald Co 



Saloons to the right of them. 
Saloons to the left of them. 
Saloons all around them. 
Pit falls unnumbered. 
'Bound by a fierce desire. 
Lashed by an inward fire. 
Haunted by demons dire, 
Abandoned and hungered; 
Stormed at with scorn and curse. 
Little' they reck for worse. 
Swarming the jaws' of deatn. 
Choking at hell's hot breath. 
Senseless they fall in death 
Daily Jive Hundred. 



Once they could Cod invoke. 
Ere their will potoer "teas broke. 
Felleo by a traffic's stroke. 
Licensed by Christian folk. 
No'® Heaven's hope sundered. 
Back on the reeking air. 
Sounds forth their dark despair. 

Echoes their soul's fierce prayer 

Daily Five Hundred. 

a A a * 

When will 'Rum's conquest end}. 

Who dares the cause defend? 

Has cMercy slumbered '?» 

Cod let the march be stayed. 

Call Justice to their aid. 

Pity the Drink Brigade, 

Save the Five Hundreds 
* * * 
-530 




PART V 

SONGS 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



533 



WOSLD IS GOING DRY. 

Tune: "Bringing- in the Sheaves. 



Sowing all around us, sowing seeds of 
temperance, 
"Vote to save the boys" shall he our 
rallying cry, 
Looking for a victory at the next elec- 
tion, 
Now we sing rejoicing, "The town is 

going dry." 
(Chorus repeat last two lines.) 

Hear the prayer of mothers, pleading 
for their children, 
And the cry of drunkards, help us or 
we die. 
We will help our brothers as they strive 
for freedom, 
So we sing with gladness, the county 

is going dry. 
Chorus. 

Go then forth with courage, working for 
the tempted, 
Standing close together, as the time 
draws nigh, 
We know the right will conquer, God 
himself will help us, 
So we shout the chorus, the state is 

going dry. 
Chorus. 

The drink curse held our nation in its 
cruel clutches, 
Now its grip is broken, hear the 
whine and cry. 
We will drive the rum shops, far be- 
yond our borders, 
For we see most surely the nation is 

going dry. 
Chorus. 

See the mighty army, steadily advanc- 
ing, 
All the world for temperance, on their 
banners high. 
God is their commander, and he says 
go forward, 
So we sing rejoicing, the world is go- 
ing dry. 

Chorus. 
The world is going dry, the world is 

going dry. 
So we sing rejoicing, the world is going 
dry. 



THE RIGHT SHALL PREVAIL. 



Tune: "Sweet By-and-By. 



When the right over wrong shall pre- 
vail, 
When the woes of wine-drinking shall 
cease, 
Then all nations and people shall hail 
With a shout the grand triumph of 

peace. 
Chorus: 
It will come, by-and-by, 

When the race out of childhood has 



grown; 
It will come, by-and-by — 

Then the age of true manhood shall 
dawn. 

Right ordains that the old wrongs shall 
cease, 
And make way for the growth of re- 
form; 
Truth and wisdom proclaim from on 
high, 
That the triumph of virtue must come. 
Chorus: 
It will come, by-and-by, 

When the sway of foul passion is o'er; 
It will come, by-and-by — 

Then fair reason shall rule evermore. 



STAND UP FOE TEMPERANCE. 

Tune: "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus. 



Stand up, stand up for Temp'rance, 

Ye soldiers of our cause; 
Lift high our royal banner, 

Nor let it suffer loss. 
From vict'ry unto vict'ry, 

Our army shall be led, 
Till ev'ry foe is vanquish'd, 

And all are free indeed. 

Stand vip, stand up for Temp'rance, 

Against unnumbered foes; 
Tour courage rise with danger, 

And strength to strength oppose: 
Forth to this mighty conflict — 

Go in this glorious hour — 
Where duty calls, or danger, 

Be never wanting there. 

— G. Duffleld. 



WHEN RUM SHALL CEASE TO 
REIGN. 



Tune: "When Johnny Comes Marching 
Home Again." 



Get ready for the jubilee, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
When this our country shall be free, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
The girls will sing, the boys will shout, 
When alcohol is driven out; 
And we'll all feel gay when whiskey is 

no more. 
And we'll all feel gay when whiskey is 
no more. 

We're only children now, you know, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
But temp'rance children always grow, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
The girls will all be women then, 
The boys, of course, will all be men, 
And we'll all fight rum till rum shall 

be no more. 
And we'll all fight rum till rum shall 
be no more. 

From Maine to California, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
From Delaware to Canada, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
The struggle now is going on, 



534 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



And, when the mighty victory's won, 
We'll all feel gay that whiskey reigns 

no more, 
We'll all feel gay that whiskey reigns 

no more. 

It will not do to simply say, 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
But do your duty, then you may 

Hurrah! hurrah! 
Assist the weak, yourself deny, 
Stand by the right, and bye-and-bye 
We'll all feel gay that whiskey reigns 

no more, 
We'll all feel gay that whiskey reigns 
no more. 

— Edward Carswell. 



GOD BLESS OUR CAUSE. 



Tune: 'America." 



God bless our sacred cause! 
We plead for righteous laws, 

Our homes to shield. 
Our land has suffered long, 
From an accursed wrong, 
Whose roots are deep and strong, 

Nor do they yield. 

We plead! but all in vain; 
The people's deep-felt pain 

Finds no redress. 
This deadly Upas tree 
Spreads out, despite our plea, 
And plants its rootlets free; 

To our distress. 

Now let the people come, 
And vote for God and home, 

And temperance laws! 
We'll be no more deceived; 
Our land must be retrieved, 
And from this curse relieved! 

God bless our cause! 



THE WORLD IS GROWING- BRIGHT. 

Tune: "Old Black Joe." 



Gone are the days when saloons all have 

their way; 
Gone many men who upheld them day 

by day; 
Shout and be glad for saloons are sure 

to go, 
All omens of the future point this way, 

I know. 

Chorus: 
It's coming, it's coming, 
Yes, the day is coming on, 
When the saloon and all its curse, 
Will soon be gone. 

Why should I weep when the world is 

growing bright; 
Why should I sigh when the land is 

filled with light; 
Grieve not thyself for mistakes of long 

ago, 



But come and help us press the fight 
against the foe. 

Go forth, my friends, and fight this foe 

unjust, 
Strike the saloons and crush them to 

the dust, 
Then will appear a day of joy unknown 
To men who weep and sadly reap what 

they have sown. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



STORM THE FORT FOR PRO- 
HIBITION. 



Tune: "Hold the Fort. 



Hark! ye voters, hear the bugle 

Calling to the fray; 
"Prohibition" is our watchword, 

Right shall win the day. 

Chorus: 
Storm the fort for Prohibition, 

Captives signal still, 
Answer back to their petition, 

"By our votes we will." 

See the haughty rum-shops' banner 

On the fortress wall; 
Hurl the temp'rance ballots 'gainst it 

Till the ramparts fall. 

Face the grog-shops' bold defiance, 

Never fear or quail. 
Coward foes will soon surrender: 

Voters! do not fail. 



HURRAH FOR PROHIBITION. 



Tune: "Yankee Doodle. 



The Temp'rance folks are waking up 

Throughout the Yankee nation, 
To put the liquor traffic down, 

And drive it from creation. 
The stills and drinking dens are doom'd 

To lawful demolition; 
For all good men are going in 

For legal Prohibition. 

Chorus: 
Prohibition is the song, 

We'll shout it through the nation; 
Prohibition to the wrong 

Is right through all creation. 

Too long King Alcohol has reigned, 

All moral suasion scorning; 
Too long his murd'rous savages 

Have filled the land with mourning. 
Rumsellers care not for our prayers. 

Or tears, or admonition; 
But there's a pow'r can make them 
quake — 

'Tis legal Prohibition. 

Chorus: 

No scoffs or foes or doubts of friends 
Shall weaken our endeavor 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



535 



To brand the traffic with disgrace, 

And wipe it out forever! 
Right on shall go the noble work 

Until its full completion; 
We'll "fight it out upon the line" 

Of total Prohibition! 

Chorus: 

—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



THE GREAT MOVEMENT. 



Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 



There's a movement strong and grand 

Spreading over all the land, 

Giving joy and peace and gladness to 

the world, 
'Tis a battle for the right, 
And our boys are in the fight, 
And our Anti-Saloon banner is unfurled. 

Chorus: 
Vote, vote, vote, the boys are marching, 

Cheer up, comrades, never yield, 
We are ready for the fray, 
And we're sure to win the day, 

Then we'll drive the league of liquor 
from the field. 

Shall our birthright be denied? 
Shall we see our laws defied 
By a league of liquor dealers who de- 
mand 
With their scornful bitter hate, 
That within our own dear state, 
Not a law that checks their fiendish 
trade shall stand. 

No, the edict has gone forth, 
From the South, the East, the North, 
From the valleys to the highest moun- 
tain domes. 
With our fortunes and our lives, 
We'll protect our sons and wives, 
And defend the sacred altars of our 
homes. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



WHEN WE VOTE THE SALOONS 
OUT. 



Tune: "Marching Thro' Georgia.' 



Come and gather 'round, my friends; 

We'll sing a temp'rance song; 
Sing it with a spirit that will 

Start our cause along; 
Sing it as we soon shall sing it — 

Many thousand strong, 
When we shall vote the saloons out. 

Chorus: 
Hurrah! hurrah! 'twill bring the jubilee! 
Hurrah! hurrah! the vote will make us 

free! 
Soon we'll sing the chorus from the 

mountain to the sea, 
While we go marching to vict'ry. 

How the mothers and the wives 
Will shout to hear the sound, 



How the hearts of children too 
With happiness will bound; 

How the blessed news will spread 
The whole wide world around, 

When we shall vote the saloons out. 

Many homes will then be bright 
That now are full of woe; 

Business then will be quite brisk, 
Which now is very slow; 

Churches will be crowded full, where 
Now few people go, 

When we shall vote the saloons out. 

Come, then, all ye loyal men, 

And join us in the fight; 
Come and join the army that you 

Know is in the right; 
Come and help us win the day, 

'Twill fill the foe with fright, 
When we shall vote the saloons out. 
— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



NO LICENSE SHALL TRIUMPH. 



Tune: "Marching Thro' Georgia. 



Wake ye people, everywhere, and strike 

a mighty blow, 
Strike the enemy of home, of native 

land the foe; 
Sound the order thro' the town that 

each saloon must go, 
And then No License shall triumph. 

Chorus : 
Hurrah! hurrah! lift high the banner 

white! 
Hurrah! hurrah! we've 'listed for the 

fight, 
Alcohol and all his kin we'll bury out of 

sight, 
Whene'er No License shall triumph. 

License, low, or even high, are sins 

we'll not endure, 
No license only is our plan, we have no 

other cure, 
Fight it out upon this line, and victory 

is sure, 
And then No License shall triumph. 

License, friends, is but a trick to let the 
demon in, 

Never yet was vict'ry won by compro- 
mise with sin, 

"Vote then straight against it, boys, and 
you are sure to win, 

And then No License shall triumph. 

Long our town has waited for the work 

that we must do, 
Laurels are in waiting for the noble 

temp'rance crew, 
Great the vict'ry we shall win, if we are 

brave and true, 
Whene'er No License shall triumph. 

Chorus to last stanza: 
Hurrah! hurrah! we'll drive the traffic 
out! 



536 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



Hurrah! hurrah! the foe we'll put to 

route; 
When at last our town is free, we'll 

raise a mighty shout, 
That No License has triumphed. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



THE TEMPERANCE WAVE. 



Tune: "Red, White, and Blue." 



The Temperance wave is far spreading-, 

And rolling all over the town; 
The people in might are uprising 

To help us put rum selling down. 
We are seeking to help the downtrodden, 

To make them both sober and true; 
Then rally around our proud banner, 

And pledge it your faith here anew. 

Chorus: 
We'll vote for the home and No License! 

(Yes, we will!) 
We'll vote for the home and No License! 

(Yes, we will!) 
We'll vote for the home and No License! 
For the right and our homes we'll be 

true. 

No license! bright star of life's ocean, 

Thou wilt set many thousands free 
From alcohol's raging commotion, 

All true hearts give homage to thee. 
Thy mandates make warriors assemble. 

When rum's fearful curse stands in 
view; 
Thy banners make alcohol tremble. 

Three cheers for the right and the 
true! 

Oh, think of the homes that are happy, 

Of hearts that are gladdened to-day; 
Of mothers and sisters rejoicing, 

Of friends that we love far away; 
Because that our voters so many, 

With purpose so high and so true, 
Have promised to vote for No License, 

Three cheers! for the brave are not 
few! 



—Rev. O. R. Miller. 
NO LICENSE FOREVER! 



Tune: "Battle Cry of Freedom." 



We are coming to the polls, boys, 
We're coming in our might, 

Voting for temp'rance and No License; 
And we bear the stars and stripes 

Of the Union and the right, 

Voting for temp'rance and No License. 

Chorus: 
No License forever! Hurrah! boys, Hur- 
rah! 
Drive now the rumshop forever afar, 
As we rally round the polls, boys, 
United in our cause, 
Voting for temp'rance and No License. 

We will soon decide the day, boys, 



For honest men and true, 
Voting for temp'rance and No License; 

And we'll show what all the world 
Has for sober men to do, 

Voting for temp'rance and No License. 
Yes, for liberty and order, 

For honor true and bright, 
Voting for temp'rance and No License; 

And the vict'ry shall be ours, 
For we're coming in our might, 

Voting for temp'rance and No License. 
— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



SAY, VOTERS, ARE YOU READY? 



Tune: 



'Yankee Doodle. 



Come, friends, and listen to a song, 

About our mighty nation; 
On ev'ry hand where'er there's rum, 
You'll find sad dissipation. 
Chorus: 
Temperance voters, keep it up, 

Give our homes protection; 
Knock the rummies out of sight 
At every town election. 

Now listen, friends, for we propose, 
To give some common sense, 

And that is, "stop this curse of rum 
By voting for No License!" 

We've had enough of license laws, 

Enough of liquor taxes, 
We've turned the grind-stone long 
enough, 

'Tis time to swing our axes. 

This deadly Upas-tree must fall — 
Let strokes be strong and steady; 

Pull up the stumps! grubb out the roots! 
Say, voters, are you ready? 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



TEMPERANCE FOX.KS, WARE UP. 

Tune: "Yankee Doodle." 



The temp'rance folks are waking up 
Throughout this Yankee nation, 

To put the liquor traffic down, 
And drive it from creation. 

Chorus: 
That's the way to win the day; 

Wait a little longer; 
Rum shall fail, with tyrants all, 

When Temp'rance votes are stronger. 

The drinking dens are surely doomed, 
For God will come with vengeance, 

Since all good men are going in 
United for No License. 

Too long King Alcohol has reigned, 

All moral suasion scorning; 
Too long his murd'rous savages 

Have filled the land with mourning. 

Rumsellers care not for our prayers, 
Or tears or admonition; 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



537 



But there's a power can make them 
quake, 
'Tis well-enforced No License. 

Rum's hindered many a noble plan, 
And scattered death and ruin; 

But soon we'll show the best we can, 
What Temp'rance votes are doing. 
— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



COME AND JOIN" OUR ARMY. 



Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp." 

Old King Alcohol has long 
Been a tyrant bold and strong, 

And he holds a bloody scepter in this 
town. 
Will you join our Temp'rance cause? 
Will you say to him now, pause! 

Will you come and help us crush this 
monster down? 

Chorus: 
Come! Come! Come! and join our army! 

Help us put the traffic down; 
Stand up boldly for the right, 
Then the foe we'll put to flight, 

And we'll drive the cruel tyrant from 
the town. 

O, now, voters, will not you 
Come and join this army true? 

For your ballots at the polls will help 
restrain, 
This great enemy of truth 
And protect our boys and youth, 

And 'twill help the cause of Temp'rance 
to maintain. 

Shall this bloated tyrant come 
With this whisky, beer and rum, 

And our country fair with ruin cover 

o'er? 
Friends of God and man, arise! 
Fight till all beneath the skies 

Bear the curse of Old King Alcohol 
• no more. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



OUR COUNTRY. 



Tune: 'America." 
Our country, 'tis for thee, 
That thou mightst rescued be 

From power of rum; 
That those who've suffered long 
From cruelty and wrong, 
May free be made and strong, 

For this we come. 

Our native country, thee, 

Who has been twice made free, 

To thee we call; 
Once more exert thy might, 
Maintain the cause of right, 
The liquor traffic smite, 

Once and for all. 

Oh, voters, true and brave, 
Shall the rum king enslave, 



This land so bright? 
Shall crime and want increase, 
O, shall this traffic cease? 
Shall strife give way to peace, 

And wrong to right? 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



WE'LL DEFEND OUR HOMES. 



Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp." 

O, the sadness of our homes, 
When the rule of liquor comes, 

With so many thousands falling 'neath 
its power; 
But we'll seek to stem the tide, 
And the evil set aside, 

And we'll look to God for refuge in 
that hour. 

Chorus: 
Hark! hark! hark! our God is speaking, 

Telling of His power and love; 
And the people in His might 
Are now springing to the fight, 

And we'll shout aloud the vict'ry from 
above. 

We have seen the angry nod 
Of the enemies of God; 

And our Sabbaths they have sworn 
they'll set aside, 
And they make a great parade, 
With their liquor signs displayed, 

But we'll turn against them now the 
rising tide. 

Yes, our Sabbaths we'll defend — 
Homes with love and joy shall blend, 
And we'll sweep old Alcohol into the 
sea; 
And we'd have you make a note 
That we'll do this with our vote, 

Then we'll sing the blessed anthem of 
the free. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



VOTING FOR NO LICENSE. 

Tune: "Rally Round the Flag." 

We will rally for the right, friends, 

We'll rally once again, 
Voting ever for No License! 

We will save our boys and men, 
From the liquor seller's den, 

Voting ever for No License! 

Chorus: 
Our triumph is coming, arise men, arise! 
Down with traffic! strike till it dies! 
Let us rally for the right, 
Let us rally once again, 
Voting ever for No License! 

We will answer to the call of the 

Women of the town, 
Voting ever for No License! 

We will fight in their defense, 
And the traffic shall go down, 

Voting ever for No License! 



538 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



We will drive away the curse 
That the liquor sellers bring, 

Voting ever for No License! 
We will crush the cruel head 

Of the alcoholic king, 

Voting ever for No License! 

We have God upon our side 
And we'll conquer in the end, 

Voting ever for No License! 
He is stronger than the foe, 

And on him we will depend, 
Voting ever for No License! 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



NO LICENSE IS OUR THEME. 

Tune: "Yankee Doodle." 



Friends, No License is the theme, 
We Temp'rance folks delight in; 

We'll write it down to fit the tune 
Our fathers made for fightin'. 

Chorus: 
Yes, No License is the song, 

We'll shout it through the nation; 
Strict No License to the wrong, 

Is right through all creation. 

If you want to stop a man 

From drinking rum and brandy, 

Don't give a license to the shop 
That keeps it always handy. 

No scoffs of foes or doubts of friends 
Shall weaken our endeavor 

To brand the traffic with disgrace, 
And wipe it out forever. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



A DAY OP WRATH. 



Tune: "Battle Cry of Freedom." 



A day of wrath is waiting 

For the hosts of sin and shame, 

The Lord of righteousness 

Shall rise and glorify His name, 

He's coming to deliver 

As in days of old He came, 

With glory and with power! 

Chorus: 
Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 
Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 
Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 
Our God will come with power! 

No more our Sabbaths shall for work 

Of sin and death be sold, 
No more our treasuries be cursed 

With sin-polluted gold, 
No more our prisons shall 

The fruits of licensed liquor hold, 
For God in justice reigns! 

The wail of suff'ring ones 

Has reached th' Omnipotent on high, 
And He who never fails to hear 

The burdened when they cry, 
Hath sounded forth the order 



That the cursed saloon must die, 
For God in mercy reigns! 

Down from the battlements of heav'n 
Has been heard the trumpet call 

That summons forth an army 
On the hosts of sin to fall, 

And the sword of God in righteousness 
Shall break the despot's thrall, 

For God in triumph reigns! 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



HOLD THE FORT FOR NO LICENSE. 

Tune: "Hold the Fort." 



Ho! my comrades, see the banner, 

Waving in the sky! 
Re-inforcements are appearing, 

Victory is nigh! 

Chorus: 
Hold the fort for No License! 

Freedom signals still; 
Answer back to her petition, 

"By our votes we will." 

All our town the foe engages! 

Let not freedom lag! 
See! the battle fiercely rages! 

Rally round the flag! 

By the land our fathers bought us, 

With their precious blood! 
By the birth-rights they have brought 
us, 

Stem the rum-tide's flood! 

By the God who freedom gave us, 

With immortal souls, 
Crush the foe who dares enslave us; 

Forward to the polls! 

—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



HAIL COLUMBIA. 

Hail Columbia, happy land, 
Hail, ye heroes, heav'n-born band, 
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, 
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, 
And when the storm of war was gone, 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 
Now let No License be our boast, 
Ever mindful what it cost, 
Ever grateful for the prize, 
Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let us be, 
Rallying 'round our liberty! 
As a band of brothers join'd, 
Peace and temp'rance we shall find. 

Temperance patriots! rise once more! 
Defend your rights! defend your shore! 
Let no rude foe with rum-soaked hand, 
Let no rude foe with rum-soaked hand, 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood, the well earn'd prize, 
While off'ring peace sincere and just, 
In heaven we place a manly trust, 
That truth and Temp'rance may prevail, 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 

—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



539 



MOURNING AT THE OLD HEARTH- 
STONE. 

Tune: "Tenting on the Old CampGround." 



They are mourning to-night at the old 
hearthstone, 

Give them a ray of hope; 
Their weary hearts are sad and lone, 

Through deepening sorrows grope. 

CHORUS: 
Many are the hearts that are mourning 
to-night, 
Mourning over ruined boys; 
Many are the hearts praying for the 
right, 
Though robbed of all life's joys. 
Mourning to-night, mourning to-night, 
Mourning at the old hearthstone. 

They're weeping to-night at the old 
hearthstone, 

Weeping for loved ones lost; 
Bright music hushed to wail and moan; 

The licensed grog shop's cost. 

There's anguish to-night at the old 
hearthstone, 

For loved ones they await 
Are lured and wrecked in murder mills, 

Maintained by church and state. 

They're calling to-night from the old 
hearthstone, 

List to the plaintive strain; 
Pleading with us to protect their boys 

From a monster worse than Spain. 

CHORUS: 
Many are the hearts that are breaking 
to-night, 
Breaking over ruined boys; 
Many are the hearts praying for tne 
right, 
Though robbed of all life's joys. 
Breaking to-night, breaking to-night, 
Breaking at the old hearthstone. 

— F. E. Magraw. 



FROM THE MOUNTAINS TO THE SEA. 

Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp." 



Where the snow is on the pine, 
Where the summers ne'er decline, 
Where the empire of the prairie west- 
ward rolls, 
Ring the nation's war with rum, 
Not with cannon, flag, nor drum, 
But with ballots softly falling at the 
polls. 

Refrain — 
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the cause is 

marching, 
On, on, on to victory. 
But the fight will not be done, 
'Till the state we love is won, 
So we'll push it from the mountains to 

the sea. 



Towns that have long lain appalled, 
Thronging cities rum-enthralled, 

Now re-echo with the struggle to be free. 
'Tis a fight for God above, 
And for all on earth we love, 

So we'll strike for God, our land, and 
victory. 

Never say it can't be done, 
Faith and pluck have always won, 
And will yet the mountains move into 
the sea. 
God is on His judgment throne, 
And we battle not alone; 
When His hour has struck the foe will 
melt and flee. 

So together let us move; 
Faith and courage let us prove; 
"While our land is unredeemed we dare 
not stay; 
Hoary, proud, our every state, 
Great in wrong, in good more great; 
Gird us, Lord, to cleanse her greatest 
wrong away. 

— H. H. Barstow. 
Adapted by E. R. Shaw. 



VOTER'S CONSECRATION. 



"Take my vote, and let it be 
Consecrated, Lord, to thee. 
Let me realize now my power 
In the conflict of that hour. 

Take my vote, and let it be 
Consecrated, Lord, to thee. 
Guide my hand, that it may trace 
Crosses, in the proper place. 

Take my vote, that we may see 
Politics controlled by Thee. 
This to Thee I gladly bring 
That the State may own her King.' 
— Selected. 



A TEMPERANCE CAMPAIGN SONG. 

Tune: "Rally 'Round the Flag." 



There's a crash of mighty conflict 
Resounding day and night, 
Ev'rywhere proclaim the joyful story; 
Watch the temperance banners waving 
In the thickest of the fight, 
While we are marching on to glory. 

CHORUS: 
On with the battle! hurrah, boys, hurrah! 
Down with the murder mills, and up 

with the law! 
Oh, we'll rally round the ballot box, 
And we'll vote just as we pray, 
Shouting the battle cry of temperance. 

Good Templar ranks are keeping step, 
Their hearts are brave and strong, 
While they are marching on to vict'ry; 
Against the liquor tyrants they 
Have battled hard and long, 
While they are marching on to vict'ry. 



540 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



The women wield their flashing blades 

With purpose firm and true, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry; 

They have never faltered in the fight, 

The W. C. T. U. 

While they are marching on to vict'ry. 

The young folks now are on the field, 

The noble L. T. L., 

While they are marching on to vict'ry; 

They will never know surrender, 

They are firing shot and shell, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry. 

Cheers for the Anti-Saloon League, 

Whose hosts are in the fray, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry; 

They will never cease the struggle till 

The right has gained the day, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry. 

See the Prohibition heroes as 

They face the cruel foe, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry; 

They are hurling back the rum-fiends 

With every crushing blow, 

While they are marching on to vict'ry. 

Then come and join our phalanx, and 

We'll win the glorious prize, 

While we are marching on to vict'ry; 

We will wage the righteous conflict, 

Till old Gambrinus dies, 

Yes, we are marching on to vict'ry. 

— Frank P. Reno. 



OUR COMING BANNER. 



O say! do you see on our Star-spangled 
Flag, 
The red stains of a crime that dis- 
honors the nation, 
Which soon in its course would to in- 
famy drag 
And make of our land one vast deso- 
lation? 
See the woe and despair! hark! what 

cries fill the air, 
As the wide flood of ruin pours on 
everywhere! — 
'Tis the curse of the demon that fain 

would enslave 
All the free, and defile all the good 
and the brave. 

Long — long doth the tyrant his iron 
sway wield 
In paths drenched in blood, law and 
order defying. 
Till thousands of homes of the drunk- 
ards are filled 
With vain prayers for help or the 
groans of the dying; 
Yet the lava tide flows, amid shrieks, 

wails and throes 
Of victims that know not relief nor re- 
pose, 
And still the striped banner in mock- 
ery waves 
Over millions of souls rushing on to 
their graves 



O! then let us rise in our God-given 
might 
To drive out the foe with all his pol- 
lution, 
With prayers and with ballots to urge 
on the fight, 
And courage that never will know 
diminution. 
So, with the victory blest in peace we 

shall rest, 
Assured of our birthright of Freedom 
possessed, 
While the Star-spangled Banner in 

triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free — the pure — 
and the brave! 

— National Advocate. 



SWEEPING THE LAND WITH PRO- 
HIBITION. 

Tune: "Shouting the Battle Cry of 
Freedom." 



See our legions marching forth, 
East and West and South and North, 

Sweeping the land with Prohibition! 
As the light dispels the gloom, 
As dust flies before the broom, 

Sweeping the land with Prohibition! 

CHORUS: 
Yes! Prohibition will do the work! 
And we our duty never will shirk! 
Lincoln's task we're bound to do. 
Come and help us put it through — 
Sweeping the land with Prohibition! 

Lincoln said our country free 
From the power of Rum must be — 

That's what we mean by Prohibition! 
And we'll vote as well as talk — 
Rum the plank has got to walk, 

That's what we mean by Prohibition! 

When the men will vote the way, 
Christian women work and pray, 

We'll sweep the land with Prohibition! 
And that day will soon be here, 
With the end of Rum and Beer — 

Clean swept away by Prohibition! 

We shall fight the battle out, 
And shall win without a doubt, 

Sweeping the land with Prohibition! 
And the gin-mills soon shall be 
Scarce as snakes in Ireland — see? 

All swept away by Prohibition! 

— T. C. Marshall. 



EVILS OF INTEMPERANCE. 

Tune: "A Charge to Keep I Have." 

"Mourn for the thousands slain, 
The youthful and the strong; 

Mourn for the wine-cup's fearful reign, 
And the deluded throng. 

Mourn for the lost, — but call, 

Call to the strong, the free; 
Rouse them to shun the dreadful fall, 

And to the refuge flee. 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



541 



Mourn for the lost, — but pray, 

To break the fell destroyer's sway, 

And show his saving love." 

Pray to our God above. 



OUR BATTLE CRY NO LICENSE. 



Tune: "Rally Round the Flag." 
We will rally to the polls, boys, 

We'll rally once again, 
Shouting our battle cry, No License! 

We will rally for the Home till 
The vict'ry we shall gain, 

Shouting our battle cry, No License! 

Chorus: 
No license for ever! Hurrah! boys, hur- 
rah! 
Down with the rumshop, away with the 

bar! 
So we'll vote now for protection 
To our homes and to our boys, 
Shouting our battle-cry No License! 

Yes, we'll vote against the rumshop, 

We'll strike a mighty blow, 
Shouting our battle-cry No License! 

And we'll crush this monster evil — 
The liquor traffic — low, 

Shouting our battle-cry No License! 

Come, we're going to the polls, boys, 

We're going to the fight, 
Shouting our battle-cry No License! 

And we'll cast a heavy vote 
In the name of God and Right, 

Shouting our battle-cry No License! 
—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



TEE TEMPERANCE BANNER. 



Tune: "Star Spangled Banner." 

Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early 

light 
What so long we have hoped for with 

hearts sorely aching, 
The swift flash of the sword that will 

fall in its might, 
The power of King Alcohol evermore 

breaking? 
Nay, the Wine-god's red glare 
And the drunkard's wild prayer 
Give proof thro' the night that the curse 

is still there. 
Oh, say, does the Star Spangled Banner 

now wave 
O'er a land of the free and the home 

of the brave! 

Now the Truth's dimly seen thro' the 

smoke of the fray, 
Advancing unharmed where the dread 

foe reposes, 
With a sling and a stone the huge giant 

she'll slay, 
Though a demon-forged armour his body 
encloses. 
Oh, the people will shout 
When his life-blood ebbs out, 
And a million rum slaves will join in 



the rout; 

When the Star Spangled Banner in tri- 
umph doth wave, 

O'er a land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 

Then where'll be that band who so 

vauntingly swore, 
'Mid the havoc of rum and the traffic's 

confusion, 
The homes and the country they'd curse 

evermore? 
Our votes shall wash out their foul foot- 
steps' pollution; 
No refuge will save 
Rumsellers who gave 
So much anguish to hearts they have 

sent to the grave; 
Oh, the Star Spangled Banner, long may 

it wave, 
O'er the land of the free and the home 

of the brave! 

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall 

stand 
Between their loved homes and foul 

rum's desolation, 
Blest with Temp'rance and peace, may 

our heav'n rescued land 
Praise the Power that made and pre- 
served us a nation. 
And conquer we must, 
For our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto: "In God is our 

trust." 
And the Star Spangled Banner in triumph 

shall wave, 
While the land of the free is the home 

of the brave. 

—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



A CAJmJm to workmen. 

Tune: "Showers of Blessing. 



Heed now the calls of the nation, 
Louder and louder they speak, 

Banish the place of temptation, 
Act for the sake of the weak. 

Chorus: 
Rouse ye, (rouse ye), O workmen, 

Make not a moment's delay; 
Drive from your pathway the rumshop, 

Which curses you day after day. 

What's your great curse, O ye work- 
men? 

Who is your most bitter foe? 
None is so foul as the rum-shop, 

Bringing you nothing but woe. 

Strength in your muscles and sinews 
Is needed your work to command. 

Alcohol takes away vigor, 

Weakens the brain and the hand. 

Mill, or the shop, or the fact'ry, 
All of your strength may require, 

Yet the saloon would fain rob you 
Of strength with its liquid of fire. 
—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



542 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



THE NO-LICENSE BANNER. 



Tune: "Star Spangled Banner." 



Oh, say, did you see on the brow of the 

night, 
That star like a watch-fire so tranquilly 

burning? 
'Tis the day-beam of hope and the prom- 
ise of light, 
And joy to the hearts of the wretched 
returning. 
Then away to the fields, 
With our standard and shields, 
Our cause is progressing, the tyrant 
must yield; 
And the No-license banner in triumph 

shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 
of the brave! 

Though strong is our foe, let us work 

with our might, 
The arrows of death from his quiver de- 
scending; 
We'll haste to the ground, while we 

boldly unite, 
Our cause with the vigor of heroes de- 
fending; 
Our colors unfold, 
For we still do behold 
The day-beam of hope in its beauty un- 
told, 
And the No-license banner in triumph 

shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 
of the brave! 

Then where'll be the band who so 

vauntingly boast 
That the price of men's souls is their 

lawful possession? 
They will join in the ranks of the tem- 
perance host, 
Ashamed of the traffic and glad of re- 
pression. 
Even now we can see 
What most surely will be — 
With No-license the watchword from 
sea unto sea. 
For the No-license banner in triumph 

shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 
of the brave! 

Oh, thus be it e'er when true freemen 

shall stand 
With their votes to repel the rum fiend's 

desolation; 
Then shall women and children with up- 
lifted hand 
Praise the Power that has made us a 
Temperance nation! 
Then conquer we must, 
For our cause it is just; 
And this is our motto: "In God we will 
trust." 
And the No-license banner, O, long 

may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 
of the brave! 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



THE GOOD TIME COMING. 



Tune: "Sweet By and By.' 



There's a time that is coming at last — 

Oh! hasten that long-looked-for day, 
When the rum fiend no shackles shall 
cast, 
For all Christians shall vote as they 
pray. 

Chorus: 
It will come, by and by, 

We shall welcome that beautiful day! 
It will come, by and by, 

When all Christians will vote as they 
pray. 

When the fire shall go out at the still, 
And the worm shall be taken away; 

And its ruins give place to the mill, 
Making bread that doth hunger allay. 

And the prisons shall close every door, 
And the poorhouses empty shall stand, 

When the dram shop shall curse never- 
more 
The dear Homes of our beautiful land. 



In 



When the Church and the State shall 
arise 
the strength of their virtue and 
might, 
And improve every moment that flies, 
In their working and voting for right. 
—Rev. O. R. Miller. 



LIGHT OF TRUTH IS BREAKING. 



Tune: "Battle Hymn of the Republic." 

The light of truth is breaking, 
On the mountain tops it gleams; 

Let it flash along the valleys, 
Let it glitter on our streams, 

Till all the land awakens, 
In its flush of golden beams; 

Our cause is marching on. 

Chorus: 

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! 

Our cause is marching on. 

With purpose strong and steady, 
In the great Jehovah's name, 

We rise to snatch our kindred 

From the depths of woe and shame; 

And the jubilee of freedom 
To the slaves of sin proclaim: 

Our cause is marching on. 

Our strength is in Jehovah, and 

Our cause is in his care; 
With Almighty God to help us, 

We have faith to do and dare, 
While confiding in the promise 

That the Lord will answer prayer: 
Our cause is marching on. 

From morning's early watches 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



543 



Till the setting of the sun, 
We'll never flag nor falter, 

In the work we have begun, 
Till the rumshops have surrendered 

And the victory is won: 
Our cause is marching on. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



STORM THE PORT POR NO LICENSE. 

Tune: "Hold the Fort." 



Hark! ye voters, hear the bugle 

Calling to the fray; 
Let No License be our watchword, 

Right shall win the day. 

Chorus: 
Storm the fort now for No license, 

Captives signal still; 
Answer back to their petition, 

"By our votes we will." 

See the rum-shops' haughty banner 

On the fortress wall, 
Hurl the temp'rance ballots 'gainst it 

Till the ramparts fall. 

Face the grog-shops' bold defiance, 

Never fear or quail; 
Coward foes will soon surrender; 

Voters! do not fail. 

Fierce and long the siege has lasted, 

But the end draws near; 
Onward leads our great Commander; 

Cheer, O comrades, cheer! 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



BRAVE TEMPERANCE MEN. 



Tune: "My Maryland." 



The foe is great, but ye are strong, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
The fight is fierce and may be long, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
Remember Haddock's sacred dust, 
Remember Dow's incisive thrust, 
Remember all the heroes just, 

Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 

Then strike the foe with all your soul, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
Ye must not yield to his control, 

Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
A martyr's fate you may receive, 
'Twere better thus souls to relieve, 
Than rum should live souls to deceive, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 

I see your courage in the eye, 

Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
Though meek, you're not afraid to die, 



Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
For life or death, for weal or woe, 
Seize now the sword of truth and show 
Your courage 'gainst this deadly foe, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
We soon shall banish wine and rum, 
Temperance Men! Brave Temperance 
Men! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
That stalks with liberty along, 
And ring this dauntless slogan song, 
"Rum shall go, yes, rum shall go." 
— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



WE'LL DO AND DARE. 



Tune: "America. 



Come, raise your banners high, 
And join our battle cry; 

"No license here." 
Come, swell the valiant throng 
Who fight against the wrong, 
And shout the rallying song: 

"We'll dare and do." 

The foe is fierce and strong; 
The conflict may be long; 

But we'll be true. 
We've 'listed for the fight, 
Our cause is just and right, 
Strong in our Captain's might, 

We'll dare and do. 

Ye gallant temp'rance host, 
Stand firm at duty's post, 

The fight renew; 
We'll never give up the strife, 
E'en though with danger rife; 
While God shall give us life 

We'll dare and do. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



CRUSH THE MONSTER. 

Tune: "Swanee River." 



There lurks a poison in the wine cup, 

Foul, though unseen; 
Full many a heart is filled with sorrow, 

Many lives are made unclean. 

Chorus: 
Why then, wait a moment longer? 

Rally in your might — 
Act, that your zeal may grow the 
stronger; 
Strike, for our cause is right. 

See how the home is filled with terror; 

Mark children's tears! 
Note how the curse brings sighs from 
mothers, 

Crushed by their ceaseless fears. 



544 



STORIES OF HELL'S COMMERCE 



All sacred rights to earth are trampled, 

God's law transgressed; 
All holy instincts lost, forgotten, 

Bringing only sad unrest. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



DARE WE LICENSE? 



Tune: "Mendon." 



Dare we license give to sin, 

Or sanction that which God abhors? 
When evil like a flood comes in; 

Against it let us shut our doors. 

A compromise with this dread foe 
To make, no liberty is given; 

Let magistrates and rulers know 
How to respect the laws of heaven. 

Must law or its transgressors yield? 

Shall right succumb and law abound? 
Rather round virtue cast a shield, 

And by her claims let all be bound. 



PRAYER FOR LI6ET AND HELP. 



Tune: "Revive Us Again. 



O, Lord, give us light, give us wisdom, 

we pray; 
Give us strength for the work we are 
doing to-day. 

Chorus: 
Come and help us, blessed Saviour, 

All powerful art Thou; 
Thine the glory, Thine the vict'ry, 
Come and help us just now. 

Though weak in ourselves, yet in Thee, 
we are strong, 

For Thou art our strength, our salva- 
tion, our song. 

For the slaves of the cup, Lord, we cry 

unto Thee; 
Oh! loose them from bondage, and let 

them go free. 

Oh! visit their souls in their darkness 
and night, 

And wake them from slumber to free- 
dom and light. 

Thy presence, Thy power, Thy wisdom 

we seek; 
Lord, lift up the fallen and strengthen 

the weak. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



DIXIE LAND FOR TEMPERANCE. 



Tune: "Dixie. 



The Temperance wave o'er the South am 

spreadin' ; 
It is what saloons am dreadin'. 

Look away! Look away! 

Look away! Dixie land. 
In Dixie land whar I was born in, 
People are 'gainst rum a stormin', 



Chorus: 
Look away! Look away! 
Look away! Dixie land. 

Den I wish I was in Dixie, 
Hooray! Hooray! 

In Dixie land, I'll take my stand, 

To lib and die in Dixie, 

Away, away, away, down South in Dixie. 

The massa used to have liquor plenty, 
All young bloods drank gin at twenty, 

Look away, etc. 
But things down there am all a changin'. 
Temperance guns 'gainst rum am rangin'! 

Look away, etc. Cho. 

Down South they fight it by local option; 
"JNTo rum sold by our adoption." 

Look away, etc. 
That motto should all men inspire 
To rise and fight this rum-fiend's fire, 

Look away, etc. Cho. 

— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



BATTLE CRY OF TEMPERANCE. 



Tune: "Battle Cry of Freedom." 



We will rally with our might, 

To the great and glorious fight, 
Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 

We will deal a fatal blow 

To this great insidious foe, 
Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 

Chorus: 
Cold water for ever! 
Away with the wine! 
For us its false glitter no longer shall 

shine. 
Here we'll sign the pledge anew, 

And we promise to be true, 
Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 

Long has Alcohol held sway; 

But we'll drive the fiend away, 
Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 

We will break the poisoned bowl, 

Which doth ruin mind and soul, 
Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 

Now's the day and now's the hour- 
Let us break the wine-cup's power, 

Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 
Gird the armor on anew, 
Be in earnest and be true, 

Shouting the battle-cry of Temp'rance! 
— Rev. O. R. Miller. 



TEMPERANCE DOXOLOGY. 

Tune: "Old Hundred." 



Praise God from whom all blessings 

flow, 
Praise Him who heals the drunkard's 

woe; 
Praise Him who leads the Temp'rance 

host; 
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. 

^-Rev. O. R. Miller. 



It'OW 



I m* 



